


Narnia's Shield

by imaginary_golux



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chronicles of Narnia Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Daughter of Eve!Rey, Faun!Poe, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pining, Son of Adam!Finn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-30 08:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12650202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Captured by the Telmarines, the Narnian spy Poe is sure he's about to die horribly. But one Telmarine soldier risks everything to save him...and might be exactly what the Narnian resistance needs to win the war.Beta by my very patient Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.





	1. Chapter 1

Poe puts his head in his hands, tugging at his curly hair and worrying at his horns - a habit he thought he’d grown out of _long_ ago. But being here, in the Telmarines’ fortress, immured beneath cold dead stone, waiting sickly for torture and death and praying desperately to Aslan for the fortitude to face both bravely - well, Poe needs all the comfort he can get. General Leia had _said_ this was going to be a dangerous mission, had warned Poe that if he was captured there was nothing she could do about it, and Poe _had_ been doing so well - had gotten absolute _buckets_ of useful intelligence, and sent it off with Beebee -

And then the Telmarines had come boiling out of their encampment, and for all that Poe is fast on his hooves, he’d gotten far too close to escape their nets.

The door creaks open, and Poe stands, staring up at his captor as defiantly as he can manage. He knows the Telmarine’s name, of course: Hux, the general who leads the seemingly-unstoppable armies, who wears the pelt of a Talking Wolf as his cloak, who has ordered his men to fell the dryads’ trees and foul the water-gods’ rivers and make trophies of the horns of Talking Stags. Who somehow knows far too much about the weaknesses of the Narnian peoples. Whose very name is a curse among the Narnian resistance fighters.

“Goatfoot,” Hux sneers. Poe meets his eyes squarely, refusing to flinch at the contempt he sees there.

“Murderer,” he replies coldly. There is no word foul enough, in Narnia, for the one who slays a Talking Beast and wears its pelt. _Abomination_ might come barely close enough.

Hux laughs, a dreadful harsh sound. “What do I care for the insults of an animal?” he asks, and beckons. Two burly Telmarines come in behind him, holding - Poe glances at the implements and then away to meet Hux’s eyes again, trying hard not to show the sudden surge of desperate fear. “You’ll tell us what you know, and then I’ll have your horns to mount on my wall,” Hux says disdainfully.

Poe takes a slow, deep breath. “The resistance will not be intimidated by you,” he says firmly.

Hux laughs again, and then the guards reach for Poe, and Poe closes his eyes and bites his lip bloody and does not say a thing, though by the end of it his throat is raw with screaming.

*

Poe is lying on the thin pallet, concentrating on breathing without screaming and on the faint pride of having _not_ said anything, not let anything but wordless sounds of pain pass his lips, despite all Hux’s torturers could do. Every minute he stays silent is a minute that General Leia can send more of their forces to safety, can conceal the resistance’s encampment a little better. Poe knows he won’t live through this - knows the next time that door opens, it will be Hux come to take his horns - but at least he can do this much before he dies: he can win General Leia a little more time.

It’s not much of an epitaph, but at this point Poe will take whatever he can get.

The door creaks open.

Poe wants to stand, to face his death on his feet as a Narnian should, but the best he can do is to half-sit up, braced on his one unbroken hand, to see -

Not Hux.

A Telmarine soldier, skin dark as rich Narnian soil, eyes shadowed with pain or fear. The man glances over his shoulder and then crosses the room in two long strides and sinks to one knee beside Poe’s pallet. “This is a rescue,” he murmurs, so softly Poe has to strain to hear. “Will you trust me?”

Poe searches the Telmarine’s eyes and sees no treachery there, no guile, only honest grief and pain. He’s always had good instincts for who to trust, and this young Telmarine is, those instincts cry, utterly trustworthy. Poe should maybe be a little more cautious, but, “Yes,” he says, because what does he have to lose? - and the Telmarine smiles, a brief flash of teeth that makes his handsome face abruptly radiant.

“Pretend you’re dead, then,” he says, and gets his arms under Poe, lifting easily as he stands. Poe goes limp obediently, sagging over the Telmarine’s arms, as like a corpse as he can feign, and the Telmarine strides out of the cell with swift steps. Poe realizes, rather to his own blank astonishment, that the Telmarine is walking as smoothly as possible so as not to jar Poe’s many injuries.

“What’ve you got there, soldier?” someone barks, and Poe holds himself still only by the barest of margins.

“Dead goatfoot, sir,” Poe’s Telmarine says respectfully. “Taking it out to the midden before it starts to stink.”

“Don’t you want the horns, then?” the officer asks. Poe concentrates on keeping his breathing shallow and silent, staying motionless.

“They’re so small, they’re hardly worth the trouble, sir,” Poe’s Telmarine says. The officer guffaws.

“Ambitious, eh? Holding out for something better?”

“Yes, sir,” Poe’s Telmarine says with convincing earnestness. “One of those bull-men, or a stag, maybe.”

“Hah!” the officer bellows, and slaps Poe’s Telmarine on the back so that he stumbles forward, arms tight around Poe, who bites his own tongue to stifle a gasp of pain. “That’s the spirit, lad!” the officer adds. “On with you, then; dump that and get your uniform clean before evening inspection.”

“Yes, sir,” Poe’s Telmarine says obediently, and heads off with Poe again, long easy strides that do not jar Poe’s wounds. There’s a bit of jostling as he frees a hand to open a door, and then - blessed fresh air. Even stinking of the midden, the breeze is _infinitely_ better than the close, dead air of the fortress.

Poe’s expecting to be put down, but the Telmarine keeps walking, and for lack of any better plan Poe stays limp, eyes closed, breathing as shallowly as he can, hoping desperately that this isn’t some sort of nasty trick. At last, though, the Telmarine stops. “Right,” he says quietly. “We’re out of sight.”

Poe opens his eyes to find that they’re standing just outside a wicket gate, in the shelter of a broad tree, well hidden from the sentries. The Telmarine lowers Poe’s legs slowly to the ground, holding him steady as he gets his balance back, and then offers Poe a flask of water. It’s warm and metallic, but Poe drinks gratefully. The water and the good clean air and the grass beneath his hooves are all wonderfully restorative, and the Telmarine’s arm is strong and warm across Poe’s back, oddly comforting.

“Thank you,” Poe says at last, and smiles up at the Telmarine, who offers him a shy smile in return. “But - I have to ask - _why_?”

The Telmarine winces. “I -” he says, and takes a deep breath. “It was the right thing to do?” Poe gives him a skeptical look, and the Telmarine huffs a quiet laugh. “It _was_ ,” he says. “But. Also. Um. Can I - can I come with you?”

Poe blinks at him. The Telmarine sighs, and rubs a hand over his face, leaving a streak of Poe’s blood on one cheek. “It’s - they told us you were all monsters,” he says quietly, and looks down at the blood on his fingers. “But you bleed as red as I do, and it isn’t _your_ people taking body parts as trophies. It can’t be right to be hunting things that - that _talk_ , or, or, driving your people out of your lands just because we’ve more swords and fewer scruples.” He sighs. “I _can’t_ stay here, and - I’ve never been trained as anything but a soldier. If I try to run off into the woods by myself, I’ll be dead inside a week even if I’m not caught as a deserter or shot by your folk. But - if you vouched for me - maybe - maybe I could help?”

“By Aslan,” Poe says, marveling, “a Telmarine with _morals_.”

The Telmarine huffs a soft laugh. “I...can see why you’d think that was rare, yeah,” he admits wryly. Then he glances up at the hidden walltop. “We should get further from the fortress, whether I am coming with you or not,” he adds. “There’s a grove of trees not too far from here; can you walk?”

“I can,” Poe says firmly, and does so, wincing at the pain of cracked ribs. His Telmarine paces him, one arm outstretched in case Poe falters. “It isn’t anything like you’re used to, among my people,” Poe adds.

“Somehow I think that’s a good thing,” his Telmarine says quietly. “If nothing else - the worst your folk will do is kill me quickly.”

“My life at least will buy yours,” Poe says, making up his mind not because of the words but because of the deep, old sorrow in his young companion’s eyes. “I will vouch for you, and even if the General says you may not stay, we shall send you on your way to Archenland or Calormen unharmed.” He glances back at the fortress, looming dimly against the sky as the light fades into evening. “You will have to trust me, though.”

“Yes,” Poe’s Telmarine says simply.

“Well then,” Poe says, stepping into the shadow of the trees and turning to look up at his unlikely companion. “My name is Poe.”

“I am Finn,” Poe’s Telmarine says. “Lead, and I follow.”

*

Poe is too exhausted - and in too much pain - to go far that evening, but there’s a tiny cave with a spring and a few supplies hidden away behind a stand of thornbushes and marked by signs that only Narnians can read, and Poe leads them to it without gaining more than a few thorn-scratches. His Telmarine follows him with wide eyes, and slumps down against the back wall of the cave, sucking absently at a scratch on one hand, as Poe shifts a few branches to make sure they’re well hidden.

“I would never have found this place if I searched for a hundred years,” Finn observes as Poe settles gingerly onto a mossy rock.

“Sort of the point,” Poe points out. “We don’t normally want Telmarines finding our hiding places.”

Finn winces, just a little. “...Quite,” he says. “Have you any sort of medical supplies? Only I think some of your injuries should probably be bandaged, and we hadn’t time before.”

“There...should be some,” Poe says, and Finn follows his gesture and rummages through the small stash of necessities, emerging with a triumphant smile and a little pot of balm, and some strips of bark-cloth.

“May I?” he asks, and Poe nods. The moon is high, and the light filtering through the trees is just enough for Finn to be able to see what he’s doing. He strips his already-stained tunic off and wets it in the spring, and wipes the dried blood gently from Poe’s skin and fur, then dabs the balm on with careful fingers and ties the bandages snugly into place. He manages to splint Poe’s broken fingers, too, aligning the bones and tying them to short lengths of stick, then wrapping the whole arrangement in another bandage. Poe can’t help marveling at the tenderness in the Telmarine’s hands. Who would have thought a Telmarine could be _gentle_?

Poe blinks, staring down at Finn as he tends a cut low on Poe’s ankle, and runs that thought through his mind again. A Telmarine, no, they are not gentle at all - but a Son of Adam?

Poe’s old enough to remember the Pevensies, if only barely, and his father and grandfather told him stories of Good King Frank’s line, which died out when the White Witch came - though there are those rumors that some remnant of the blood survived, hiding from the Witch’s power in Archenland or even Calormen. The Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, Aslan’s chosen rulers for Narnia, are known to be just and gentle, brave and kind. The Telmarines _claim_ the title of Sons of Adam, of course, to make their claim to Narnia legitimate, but Poe has never before encountered one who lives up to even _part_ of the legend.

Who could perhaps sit on the throne in far Cair Paravel.

But that’s getting a little ahead of himself, and in any case Poe has known Finn for maybe six hours and he might still, despite Poe’s instincts, be a very clever infiltrator.

Finn looks up, smiling a little, and his eyes catch the moonlight. “There,” he says, quietly. “That’s everything I can see.”

“Thank you,” Poe replies softly. “We should eat and get some sleep - tomorrow we must move quickly.”

Finn nods, and retrieves a pair of leaf-wrapped packets of trail bread from the back of the cave, and Poe concentrates on eating the honey-sticky bread and not falling over with pain and exhaustion. He does manage to limp his way to the spring and drink and rinse the honey from his hands, and then he chooses a mossy patch of ground and curls up. Finn stretches out beside him, radiating heat in the cool night, and Poe takes a moment to think about it and then abandons all hope of dignity and scootches back to press his cold back to Finn’s warm side. Finn makes a soft, astonished sound and then rolls to his side and tucks himself around Poe comfortingly. Poe sighs and falls instantly into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Poe is woken near dawn by coarse, angry swearing as some Telmarine gets caught by the thornbushes shielding the cave. Beside him, Finn is still as stone, breath hissing slightly between his teeth. “Hold still,” he whispers against Poe’s ear, so quiet it’s hard to hear even that close.

Poe nods and lies still, shaking a little, Finn’s arm a warm bar holding him to Finn’s broad chest, gentle and comforting. Past the thornbushes, the Telmarine soldier swears again.

“Fuck’s sake, not even a bloody _goatfoot_ could get through these,” he snarls. “C’mon, no point going any further in this direction. I’m not getting torn to pieces by a _bush_.”

“Might be hiding under it,” another Telmarine suggests. “You know how those fucking animals are. _Sneaky_.”

“You want to climb into a thornbush?” the first asks skeptically. “‘Cause I don’t.”

“Just shoot a couple arrows in, flush anything out,” the second suggests. Poe bites his lip to stifle the sound of dismay that wants to rise from his throat, and feels Finn go very tense behind him. Finn’s between Poe and the cave’s entrance, Poe realizes suddenly. Finn is protecting him. But there is nothing protecting Finn.

“Yeah, good thought,” the first Telmarine agrees.

Poe feels the arrow hit Finn - Finn jerks forward, a tiny hiss of pain emerging from beneath clenched teeth - but Finn makes no sound loud enough to be heard past the thornbushes, and no further arrows follow.

“Nothing in there,” the first Telmarine says, sounding satisfied, and then the soldiers go tromping off into the brush, loud as Telmarine soldiers always are - it’s the boots, Poe suspects - and Poe squirms around as quietly as he can to see how badly Finn is hurt.

The arrow is buried in Finn’s shoulder, the wound nasty but not life-threatening, unless -

“Are the arrows poisoned?” Poe whispers, shifting up onto his haunches and helping Finn roll slowly onto his front.

“No,” Finn murmurs back, voice thick with pain.

“Then hold still,” Poe says, and goes scrambling for the remaining medical supplies. Finn is still lying quietly when Poe gets back to his side, breathing slowly, teeth clamped on his lower lip. Poe offers him a stick.

“Bite on that,” he suggests quietly. “This is going to hurt, and I’m sorry.”

“Do it,” Finn says, and bites down on the stick. Poe takes a deep breath and braces his injured hand on Finn’s back, wincing a little as he jars his broken fingers. The arrow is not deeply embedded - the Telmarine was shooting idly, without much force behind it. Poe nods to himself, and takes a firm grip on the arrow’s shaft, and pulls it free.

The stick between Finn’s teeth crackles as Finn bites down hard. Poe grimaces and pours balm over the wound, then binds it up as quickly and tightly as he can.

“That’s as good as I think I can get it, buddy,” he tells Finn softly. “When we get to the resistance, one of the healers can do a better job.”

Finn nods, and rolls gingerly to his uninjured side, reaching up to pry the stick from his teeth. “Alright,” he says quietly. “Lead on.”

Poe refills Finn’s flask from the spring and helps the Telmarine to his feet. Finn outweighs him substantially - well, humans do tend to be heavier than fauns, after all. Fauns are light on their feet, meant for dancing and springing agilely through the forest. Humans are sturdier, meant for battle lines and hard labor. At least, that’s what Poe’s father told him. Certainly the Telmarines appear to bear it out.

*

It takes three days for Poe and Finn to reach the Narnian resistance, mostly because Poe is moving slowly on account of being injured and Finn is moving slowly on account of being a Telmarine in the Narnian woods who twitches at every unusual sound - and is also injured. For the last day, Poe knows they’re being tracked and watched, Wolves and Birds and even a couple of Mice keeping a close eye on them to see if Finn is threatening or coercing Poe at all. Finn, so far as Poe can tell, doesn’t see any of the watchers. He follows Poe’s orders without complaint, sits quietly as Poe tends to his wound and tends to _Poe’s_ injuries with hands that are never less than gentle, and spends most of his time staring about wide-eyed at the forest and asking Poe, very quietly, what each kind of tree and plant is.

“Do you know _nothing_ about the woods?” Poe asks at the end of the first day, hidden away in another tiny cave.

“I know they’re full of Narnians who probably want to kill me,” Finn says wryly. “I can mostly identify blackberries. And poison oak. I learned _that_ one years ago.” He shrugs. “But - we’re not encouraged to ask questions, or to learn anything about the forest. It’s bad luck, like the sea.”

“Telmarines are afraid of the forest _and_ the sea?” Poe asks incredulously. “What _don’t_ your people fear?”

“Fortresses,” Finn says dryly. “Tame farmland.”

Poe winces. “Tame,” he says sourly. “ _There’s_ a word no Narnian cares for. Narnia is not a tame land.”

“So I’m learning,” Finn says. “It’s - the forest is terrifying, but it’s beautiful, too, and the more you tell me about it, the less I fear it.” He spreads his hands. “A woodpecker is pretty odd to hear when you don’t know what it _is_. But now that I know, it’s kind of - neat, honestly. To be able to identify something by the sound like that.”

“Huh,” Poe says thoughtfully, and spends all of the next day naming every birdcall he hears, and also pointing out the tracks of various animals. Finn soaks the information up like a sponge, and by the end of the day is actually managing to identify birds by sound with quite remarkable accuracy. Poe is impressed.

“If nothing else,” Finn says when Poe asks, “it’s a good distraction from my shoulder.” He grimaces a little as Poe peels the bandages carefully away to investigate the wound.

“To be fair, teaching you is a pretty good distraction from my ribs and fingers,” Poe says. “Your former comrades have _heavy_ boots.”

“I’m sorry,” Finn says, slewing around to take Poe’s uninjured hand and look earnestly up into his eyes. “I’m sorry they hurt you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t rescue you sooner.”

“Not your fault, buddy,” Poe says, squeezing Finn’s hand tightly. “What matters is that you _did_ get me out. And hey -” he grins weakly. “If I hadn’t looked like a bloody mess, you wouldn’t have been able to convince that officer I was dead.”

Finn smiles tentatively back. “I guess that’s true,” he allows, and turns back around so Poe can finish re-bandaging his shoulder. “Um. I have a - a rude question?”

“Ask,” Poe says, frowning in concentration as he wraps the bandages carefully. “You’ve earned a few rude questions, I think.”

“What _should_ I be calling your - your people? I know it’s not ‘goatfoot’.”

Poe chuckles. “We’re fauns,” he says. “Though ‘goatfooted’ isn’t really an insult - just truth. The ‘bull-men’ are minotaurs, and there’s centaurs - they’re half horse - and gryffins, with eagle’s heads and lion’s bodies, and dwarves and dryads and - I suspect I’m just going to have to explain when we get to the camp. Too many to name.”

“But no humans?” Finn checks.

“Well, no,” Poe says, shrugging as he straightens from his task. “The line of the Frankish kings died out when the White Witch came, and the Pevensie kings and queens didn’t have any children, unfortunately. Narnia’s never had very many humans, not like Archenland or Calormen where they’re all over the place. Narnia is for _Narnians_. But -” Poe sighs, and picks a mossy rock to sit on. “Aslan said the kings and queens must be Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve. We don’t know why. And we haven’t had a true king or queen on the thrones at Cair Paravel since the High King and his siblings vanished.”

“Vanished?” Finn asks. “We heard - the officers said - the Narnians had killed the kings and queens. It’s - one of the stories they tell, to make us hate you.”

Poe winces and shakes his head. “Don’t mention _that_ to any Narnian you meet,” he says firmly. “We loved them. They freed us from the White Witch and her endless winter, and brought a golden age to Narnia such as we hadn’t seen since the first days of King Frank and his queen. They went out hunting one day and _vanished_ \- left their Horses by a thicket and were just _gone_. Poor Horses waited three days for them to return, and the best trackers we had couldn’t find anything. They just...walked out of the world.”

“Out of the world?” Finn asks, frowning a little. “Why does that sound familiar?” He drums his fingers on his knee for a moment, thinking hard, and then nods sharply. “It’s one of the old stories, about how we came to be here - not just in Narnia, but in this world at _all_. Our grandfathers and grandmothers were stranded on an island, or so we’re told, in a world where there weren’t any talking animals or dryads or - well - anything Narnian, and they found a - a crack in the world. They went through it, because there was a dreadful storm coming that would have killed them all, and it closed behind them, so they could not get back to Telmar.” He shrugs. “So maybe the Pevensie kings and queens fell through one of those?”

“It’s the best theory _I’ve_ ever heard,” Poe says, startled. “Interesting. You should tell the General. Not that it matters much _now_ , of course. Even if we _could_ open such a crack in the world to get them back, they’d be ancient by now, or dead. That was a hundred years and more ago.”

“...Less useful, then,” Finn says dryly, and Poe huffs a quiet laugh, careful not to jar his ribs.

*

They’re quite close to the Narnian camp when Poe pauses and raises a hand. Finn goes very still beside him, and Poe flashes him a quick, reassuring smile - and then Beebee drops out of a tree to land neatly on Poe’s outstretched arm and hops immediately up to Poe’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Poe’s and crooning joy and relief.

“Beebee,” Poe says quietly, stroking his friend’s feathers. “Hey, buddy.”

“How in -” Finn blurts, stops, shakes himself, and says a little more calmly, “How does a _bright orange bird_ manage to hide in a _tree_?”

Beebee gives Finn a very smug look. Poe chuckles. “Beebee’s just good at it,” he says cheerfully.

“I guess to say,” Finn says, and Beebee burbles a laugh. “Hullo, Beebee, I’m Finn.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Beebee says cheerfully, and Finn startles violently, catching himself on a tree before he can fall.

“...Never met a Talking Bird before?” Poe asks wryly. Finn shakes his head.

“Never had the honor,” he says weakly.

“Thank you for rescuing Poe,” Beebee says solemnly. Finn smiles.

“You’re very welcome,” he says.

“Right,” Poe says cheerfully. “So we’re nearly there. Be polite to the General, don’t try to pet any of the Talking animals, and - um - that’s about it.”

“Got it,” Finn says, coming to attention and then wincing as he moves his shoulder the wrong way. “Lead on.”

The entrance to the camp is guarded by a pair of Wolves, who look Poe and Finn up and down carefully before they stand aside. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Poe?” one of them rumbles as they pass.

“Absolutely,” Poe says cheerfully. Finn is staring in awe and more than a little terror at the Wolves, and Poe takes his hand to draw him further into the camp. Finn clutches at Poe’s fingers almost desperately. Poe glances around, noting his fellow scouts sitting off to one side, a group of minotaurs polishing each other’s horns companionably, two gryffins sleeping in a heap of feathers and fur, half a dozen Talking animals debating something with a pair of dryads and a minor river god - a normal afternoon. But presumably to a Telmarine, every bit of this is new and startling.

Still, Finn doesn’t balk, though he clings tightly to Poe’s hand as Poe leads the way through the camp to the great oak tree in its center. The General steps from her tree as Poe reaches its shade, and her friend and advisor, the great Owl Luke, leans down from his perch on a branch and examines them both with golden eyes.

“Welcome back,” Leia says, stepping forward to embrace Poe, and Poe hugs her tightly with his free arm. “Your information was invaluable, but I am gladder yet to see you among us again.”

“Not half as glad as I am to be here,” Poe says. “This is Finn, who saved my life.”

Finn bows deeply, still not letting go of Poe’s hand. His eyes are wide, but his voice is quite respectful as he says, “It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am.”

The General looks him up and down assessingly, and then nods. “And you,” she says. “I did not think I would ever meet a Telmarine I did not wish to slay on sight, but I find I must thank you, instead, for saving one of my dearest comrades.”

“I wish I could have done more, ma’am,” Finn says with painful honesty.

“You saved my life,” Poe points out. “Twice.”

“Still,” Finn says. “If - if I can tell you anything of use, ma’am, or do anything at all to help you and your cause, I will.”

“That _is_ a generous offer,” the General says, smiling slightly. “I will have a great many questions for you, I expect. But for now, go and see our healers, you and Poe both, and have something to eat, and rest in safety. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Finn says, and Poe grins at the General and pulls his unlikely companion away.


	3. Chapter 3

The healers - a beech dryad named Kalonia and a pair of willow dryads whose names Poe has never managed to catch - tut over Poe’s many half-healed injuries and Finn’s shoulder wound, slather balms over all of them, and re-bandage everything in sight. Kalonia orders them to report to her every morning until further notice, and under no circumstances to do anything foolish enough to re-open their wounds. Poe and Finn agree meekly.

Then Poe leads Finn over to the little circle of fellow scouts - fauns and dryads and a couple of particularly agile dwarves. They’re almost there when a centaur steps out in front of them. Finn comes to a halt so fast his feet leave scuff-marks on the grass, fingers clamping around Poe’s like a vise.

The centaur looks them both up and down, and then says, solemnly, “You bring great change among us, son of the forest.”

“...I do?” Poe asks curiously.

“You bring a son of Adam, of whom the stars say many things,” the centaur says.

“I...don’t think my father’s name was Adam?” Finn says warily. The centaur actually cracks a smile - small, admittedly, but Poe’s never seen one look _amused_ before.

“All mortal men are sons of Adam, as all mortal women are daughters of Eve,” she says patiently. Finn’s eyes go wide. “We who are Aslan’s creations come of younger lineages.”

“I...understood maybe half of that,” Finn says faintly.

“That’s better than average, when you’re talking to a centaur,” Poe tells him, and the centaur’s tiny smile gets a little bit wider.

“The stars say many things of you, son of Adam,” she informs Finn. “I shall watch with interest. Mars grows brighter, but so too do other stars.”

“...Are any of the things the stars say about me _good_?” Finn asks, sounding baffled, and the centaur gives him an enigmatic smile and a tiny bow, and wanders away towards the General. Finn gives Poe a wide-eyed look of confusion.

“Centaurs are like that,” Poe says, shrugging. “You’ll get used to it. C’mon, my friends are much less enigmatic.”

“Good,” Finn says, and sits down obediently beside Poe as his friends make room for them both.

Poe gestures around the circle. “These’re Snap and Jess and Nien and Kare and Iolo and Muran and Rose. Everyone, this is Finn, who saved my life.”

There’s a brief pause while everyone looks Finn over and Finn looks shy and hopeful, and then Snap holds out a hand. “Thanks for bringing him back to us,” he says, and Finn smiles.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “It...seemed like the right thing to do.”

“And we appreciate it!” Jess says, handing Finn a leaf-plate full of stew. “Eat and be welcome.” She hands Poe a plate, too, and Poe digs in to the first hot food he’s had in a week with sigh of contentment. Finn takes a tentative bite and his eyes go wide.

“This is _marvelous_ ,” he says, and Iolo grins.

“Well, at least _someone_ appreciates my cooking,” he says, giving Muran a mock scowl, and Poe leans his shoulder against Finn’s and lets the familiar argument wash over him as the evening sky grows dim and full of stars.

*

The next morning, a rather harried young dryad comes over to where Poe and Finn are being re-bandaged by the healers and brings them to the General, who looks them both over carefully and nods. “So I had a really very intriguing conversation with Fireoak yesterday,” she says.

“Fireoak?” Finn asks.

“The centaur we spoke with,” Poe tells him, and Finn nods in comprehension. “What did she say, General?”

“She advised me very strongly that I should send your young friend - and you, since I don’t expect I can send him anywhere _without_ you - up to Ettinsmoor.”

Poe’s eyebrows go up. “Ettinsmoor? That’s a little bit out of the way.”

“Where’s Ettinsmoor?” Finn asks plaintively.

“Up north,” Poe tells him. “Full of giants.” Finn’s eyes go wide.

“Just as Poe says,” the General agrees, nodding. “Ettinsmoor was, at one point, under the reign of the kings and queens of Narnia, but without their rule it has become again the realm of the giants. They have not answered any of our appeals for their aid against the Telmarines, unfortunately, save to say that they are capable of defending their own lands and care nothing for the rest of Narnia. But Fireoak is quite adamant that it is of vital importance that young Finn should go to Ettinsmoor, and I am disinclined to argue with a centaur. Also, it will get _you_ away from the front for a little while, Poe, certainly time enough for your injuries to finish healing properly.” She gives Finn a long look. “So. If I send you to Ettinsmoor, will you go?”

Finn takes a deep breath. “Ma’am, I came here to help your people against - against the Telmarines in any way I could. If you tell me the best way I can do that is to go to Ettinsmoor, I’ll go.”

The General nods approvingly. “Then you leave in two days. Between now and then, I’d like you to spend some time talking to Kaydel and Statura about everything you can remember about the forces the Telmarines have available, and any tactics you think would work against them. And Poe, they’ll need your report as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Poe says, and Finn comes to attention beside him with a crisp nod.

“Off with you then,” the General says with a smile, and Poe leads Finn over to where Kaydel and Statura are bent over a map spread out on a flat stone, preparing for a long day of answering many, many questions.

*

It’s honestly something of a relief to be on their way. Poe knows the endless questions are necessary, that Kaydel and Statura are very good at drawing even the tiniest details out of the scouts, insignificant-sounding things that might end up being vital in time, but it’s exhausting nonetheless.

The General offered them any supplies or support they might need - Poe is really rather curious as to what, exactly, Fireoak said to convince the General to put so much effort into a mission going _away_ from the front lines - but Poe declined an escort, so it’s just Poe and Finn and Beebee moving north through the forest, away from the war. Poe would feel guilty about that, but - well - something in the way the General looked at them suggests she thinks this mission, whatever it might be, is in fact as important as anything else Poe could be doing.

It’s two weeks to Ettinsmoor, at least, and Poe passes the time as they walk by naming plants or telling stories of Old Narnia under the Pevensie kings and queens, or under the line of King Frank before the White Witch came.

“What I don’t understand,” Finn says after one of the more elaborate tales, “is why you need humans at all. I mean, the General runs things perfectly well, doesn’t she? And Telmarines are human, but we’re - _they’re_ \- not exactly doing good things for Narnia. This country is _amazing_.” He spreads his arms wide, as though to indicate all of Narnia, its talking trees and walking rivers, its fauns and dryads and dwarves and centaurs, its wise Animals and gloomy Marshwiggles and hidden magics. “Why would you need humans to run it?”

“Aslan ordered it,” Poe says, shrugging. “And - well - I _suspect_ , though I don’t know, that there’s a reason beyond just that. See, all the peoples of Narnia have their own desires, right? Dryads and dwarves don’t always get along, for example, or fauns and centaurs, even; and the Talking Wolves and the Talking Deer, for instance, aren’t exactly the best of friends.”

“Alright,” Finn says, frowning. “That makes sense.”

Poe spreads his hands. “But there’ve never been more than a few dozen sons of Adam and daughters of Eve in Narnia proper. The kings and queens, and their children, and some immigrants from Archenland or Calormen, and of course there are humans out on the Lone Islands. Because there’s so few of them, they have to get on with everyone, but at the same time, they aren’t _of_ any group, so they can be - unbiased, I guess. I mean, everyone knows the General is utterly fair, but in an argument between a dryad and a dwarf, for instance…”

“How could you be sure she wasn’t siding with the dryad because they’re of the same people,” Finn says, nodding in comprehension. “But humans might not have those prejudices.”

“Exactly,” Poe agrees. “Mind you, apparently not all humans are quite as...magnificent as High King Peter and his siblings, or even as Good King Frank and his heirs, but it worked for quite a long time, you know. And there’s still a strong belief among Narnians that the kingdom won’t work properly without a son of Adam and a daughter of Eve on the thrones. That that’s part of why the Telmarines are succeeding, because we don’t have a son of Adam or a daughter of Eve to rally us and lead us against them.” He grimaces. “If the Pevensies hadn’t _vanished_ \- or at least had had some heirs - we’d be a lot better off.”

Finn ponders that for a while. “Couldn’t you - you mentioned Archenland and Calormen, and the Lone Islands. Couldn’t you go and get some humans from there, to lead you?”

“But how would we know _they’d_ be good leaders?” Poe counters. “Going and asking if someone wants to come be king of Narnia is as likely to attract fortune-hunters and tyrants as anything else. Aslan chose King Frank and the Pevensies for us, and He chose well. We’ve all been sort of hoping He’d send another chosen king or queen to lead us.” He closes his mouth on the rest of that thought: _Maybe He has_. Because Finn _is_ the sort of man who could be king in Narnia without becoming a tyrant, who could rule fairly over all Narnia’s many peoples. That’s becoming more apparent with every hour Poe spends in his company.

Of course, that’s assuming they can manage to beat the Telmarines, which is _not_ a given, and Poe should probably stop making really elaborate long-term plans, or conjuring up mental pictures of Finn in royal robes with a golden crown on his lovely head.

“Seems to me if this Aslan was going to do that, he should’ve done it already,” Finn says quietly. “I mean, maybe if my people - if the _Telmarines_ \- had come to settle peacefully, you all could get along; surely there’s _some_ land in Narnia that could be used for farming without getting in the way of the dryads or the dwarves or the fauns. But - but if we win this war, there’s no way the Telmarines can stay. They’ve caused too much harm, and I don’t see how that could be forgiven.”

Poe shrugs. “Deal with that if we win,” he says wearily, and then Beebee comes flying back to announce that he’s found a good spot for them to camp for the night - they’re well out of the area in which the Resistance has bivouacs hidden every few hours’ travel - and the conversation is abandoned in favor of setting up camp.

*

They’ve been sharing a bedroll since they left the Resistance encampment, mostly because one is easier to carry than two and it _does_ get chilly at night, and Finn is a remarkably good source of heat. He doesn’t seem to mind curling up around Poe, broad chest against Poe’s back and arm slung over Poe’s waist, and Poe has to admit, if only to himself, that he feels much _safer_ with Finn draped over him than he does sleeping by himself. There’s something very comfortingly protective about Finn, really - and of course there’s the fact that he _did_ take an arrow for Poe, and not that long ago, either.

The only problem with sharing a bedroll, really, is that Poe _is_ a faun, and while fauns aren’t quite as... _energetic_ about it as satyrs, they’re still naturally predisposed to a certain...eagerness, Poe decides, is the least worrying word. As long as it’s Finn spooning up behind Poe like a particularly warm and comforting blanket, Poe’s...slight problem...hasn’t become obvious, and thankfully Finn likes to go off and do calisthenics in the mornings, which gives Poe a little privacy to take care of matters.

In the normal course of things, if Poe was on a mission with one other person, that person would know how fauns tend to be, and they’d either have made it very clear that they weren’t interested in...sharing a bedroll, or they’d have made it very clear that they _were_ interested in the sort of short-term, friendly liaison for which fauns are known. And honestly, if Poe’s companion were anyone but Finn, Poe probably would have just propositioned them by now and had done.

But Finn - Poe doesn’t want a casual, friendly fling with Finn, a dance in the woods that doesn’t mean anything when the sun comes up again. He doesn’t even want a few weeks of friendly amusement, over when the mission is. Poe wants - Poe wants to keep Finn _forever_.

It’s not a common thing, for fauns, to want to form a permanent relationship. Most fauns are quite content with casual flings and friendly evenings. Poe’s father was utterly devoted to his mother, a hawthorn dryad as kind and clever as a midsummer’s day is long, a veteran of the war against the White Witch whose tree was one of the first casualties of the Telmarine invasion, but most fauns don’t have relationships like that. Poe’s not entirely sure how to bring up the subject - or even whether he should. After all, Finn’s been spooning up behind him for a week and a bit now, and Poe hasn’t noticed Finn being particularly _interested_. Warm and protective and entirely comforting, but not _interested_. And Poe would have noticed that.

And the middle of a mysterious mission is probably the wrong time to bring up the possibility of an actual _relationship_. Poe resolves to keep the whole matter _firmly_ to himself and just enjoy having Finn’s arms warm around him while he has the chance.


	4. Chapter 4

The forest ends quite abruptly, turning all at once into rolling scrubland, dry and unwelcoming. Finn stops in the forest’s shade, staring out in astonishment. Poe pauses beside him. “Welcome to Ettinsmoor,” he says wryly. “Friendly place.”

“So I see,” Finn says, striving for casual and not quite hitting it. “So now that we’ve found it, what are we supposed to do next?”

“You know, the General didn’t tell me,” Poe says thoughtfully. “Beebee? She give you any secret instructions?”

“We’re looking for giants, and a surprise,” Beebee says from a low branch, flipping his wings in a shrug. “Fireoak wouldn’t say what _sort_ of surprise.”

“Naturally,” Poe says dryly. “Centaurs. If they can’t be cryptic about it, it’s not worth saying. Alright then, let’s go looking for surprising giants.”

“I think _any_ giant counts as surprising,” Finn says, and Poe can’t help laughing.

“Fair point, buddy,” he agrees. “Right then. Let’s go find a _particularly_ surprising giant, then.”

“Lead on,” Finn says, and takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Giants. Let’s do this.”

Poe claps Finn on the shoulder and leads the way out onto Ettinsmoor, with Beebee swooping low above their heads.

*

They’re three days into Ettinsmoor, and Poe is getting _very_ tired of rolling scrub-covered hills and unexpected little cliffs and nasty little stones that get stuck in his hooves and take far too long to get out, even with Finn’s gentle, clever hands on the hoofpick, when they come over yet another rolling hill and find Beebee, who’s been flying ahead to scout, sitting on the end of a quarterstaff. The quarterstaff is being held by a young woman - a young _human_ woman, brown-haired and fair-skinned and with wiry strength clear in her slender limbs - who is looking at Beebee in wonder and awe. She looks up sharply as Poe and Finn approach, tense and wary as though expecting an attack, and Poe stops a respectful distance from her, spreading his hands to show he hasn’t got a weapon - his bow is slung over his back, and he can’t possibly draw it now. Finn imitates him, and offers the girl one of those sun-bright smiles that always make Poe’s knees go weak.

Apparently they work pretty well on the girl, too, because some of the tension goes out of her stance. “Who’re you?” she asks. “Are you with the bird?”

“I beg your pardon, my name is _Beebee_ ,” Beebee says indignantly, and the girl startles so hard she drops the quarterstaff. Beebee flaps up to land on Poe’s shoulder as the girl scrambles for her weapon.

“You can _talk_!” she says.

“Of course I can talk,” Beebee says. “Aren’t I a Talking Bird?”

Poe chuckles. “You know Ettinsmoor doesn’t have as many Talking Animals,” he reminds his friend. “Maybe she’s never seen a Talking Bird before.”

“I haven’t,” the girl confirms. “They mostly stay away from the giants. Giants will eat _anything_. You should be careful, too.”

Poe winces. “Good to know,” he says faintly. “Ugh. Giants. So, I’m Poe, and this is Finn.”

“Rey,” the girl says, leaning on her quarterstaff and looking them over curiously. “Why are you wandering around Ettinsmoor?”

“We’re - well, it’s sort of hard to explain,” Poe says.

“A centaur told us to come look for a surprise, to help fight the Telmarines,” Finn says. “But she didn’t say what _sort_ of surprise.”

“What’re Telmarines?” Rey asks. “And why do you need to fight them?”

Poe and Finn both blink at her in surprise; Beebee flips his wings and has to grab Poe’s hair with his beak so he doesn’t fall of Poe’s shoulder. Poe’s mostly used to that, and only flinches a little. “The Telmarines are an invading army,” Poe says slowly. “They’re taking over Narnia, and killing all the Talking Animals they can find - and anyone else, too.”

Rey scowls ferociously. “How _dare_ they?” she demands. “That’s just - even giants don’t kill _everything_. Who do they think they are?”

Poe can’t help smiling at her fierce anger. “They think they’re entitled to take over,” he says, shrugging. “We disagree.”

“I should think so,” Rey says, still scowling, and then her eyes go wide. “I think I know what your surprise is.”

Poe and Finn glance at each other in wild hope. “You do?” Finn asks.

“You’ll have to trust me,” Rey says. “See, I work for this giant - his name’s Unkar Plutt - and he’s got - oh, it’s easier to show you. But I can get you into his house without him catching you, if you do as I say.”

“Lead on,” Poe says. “We are entirely in your hands.”

*

Unkar Plutt’s house, for lack of a better word, is made of blocks of stone larger than most centaurs. The door alone is so tall that Poe would have to stand on Finn’s shoulders to reach the doorknob. Thankfully, there’s a tiny little doorway cut into the wall beside it, just tall enough for Rey and Finn and Poe to slip through. Rey leads the way through corridors apparently cut into the thick walls of the giant’s house, to the kitchen, where she unloads the pack on her back, scampering up a set of steps to leave several bundles of herbs on the tall counter and then hastening back down with a pair of very dead rabbits dangling from one hand. “They aren’t Talking,” she assures Poe as they hasten back into the tunnels. “I always check, even though they never are.”

Poe nods, and they follow her deeper into the giant’s house, down several flights of stairs. Finn takes Poe’s hand as they descend, and Poe has to admit he’s grateful for it. The weight of so much stone above him is deeply uncomfortable - fauns may live in caves, but not like this.

“Here,” Rey says at last, pausing beside an open doorway. “Stay back - he doesn’t know you.” Poe glances at Finn, seeing his own confusion mirrored in Finn’s eyes, and they step up together to peer through the doorway at the room beyond, as Rey steps through it and holds up the rabbits.

“Dinner, Chewie!” she calls, and out of the indistinct dimness of the room rises the head of a creature Poe thought was nothing but a myth. It rumbles something indistinct, and Rey laughs aloud and tosses one of the rabbits. The creature’s head darts forward - there is a crunch - and the rabbit is gone.

“Poe,” Finn says, very quietly, “that’s a _dragon_.”

“Yes,” Poe agrees faintly. “That’s...definitely a dragon.”

Beebee chirps, a low, awed sound. “Look,” he says after a moment. “It’s chained.”

The dragon stands up to catch the second rabbit as Rey throws it, and Poe sees the thick iron band around its leg, the chain that trails off into the dimness.

“Poe,” Finn says, still very quiet, “There are three things the Telmarines truly fear.”

“The sea,” Poe says, not taking his eyes off the dragon. “The forest. What else?”

“The dragon,” Finn murmurs. “We tell stories of them - of the fire-breathing monsters that destroy ships and trees and houses, that devour maidens and slay valiant knights, that lair in the trackless mountains and swoop down to wreak havoc on civilized lands. They are the first nightmare of every Telmarine child, the most terrifying story told around the fire at night. If your - if the Narnians had a _dragon_ -”

“If we had a dragon,” Poe agrees.

Rey has sat down on the stone floor of the cavern, with the dragon’s immense head in her lap, and is rubbing it under the chin as the dragon makes soft pleased noises deep in its throat. “Come in,” she says, just loud enough for them to hear her. “Chewie, these are Poe and Finn and Beebee.”

Poe steps forward, slowly, Finn at his side, Beebee huddled against his neck. The dragon rolls one great eye to stare at them, then huffs a little and closes its eye again, leaning more firmly against Rey.

“That’s...quite a surprise,” Poe says at last. “I am very surprised.”

“Yes,” Finn agrees, nodding firmly. “Immensely surprised. Um. Would - would Chewie let me touch him?”

Rey gives Finn a startled and rather impressed look. “Yes,” she says after a moment, and Finn steps forward, still clinging hard to Poe with one hand, and puts the other gently on the dragon’s shoulder. He stands there for a long moment, staring at his own hand dark against the bronze dragon’s scales.

“Everything they ever told me was a lie,” he says at last. “Hello, Chewie. It’s very good to meet you.”

The dragon opens its eyes again and looks Finn over, then rumbles something deep in its great chest. “He says it’s good to meet another sensible person,” Rey translates. And then she adds, “I can’t lift the key to his chains myself. Believe me, I’ve tried. But if you promise to take me with you, I’ll show you how to set him free.”

“Done,” Poe says at once. “You will be welcome among us.”

“Alright,” Rey says, and nods. “I have to go make dinner for Unkar Plutt. You stay down here. Tonight, once he’s asleep, we’ll take the key.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Finn says, and sinks down to sit on the floor as Chewie raises his head, grumbling, and Rey rises to her feet. “Hope you don’t mind us staying here a while, Chewie.”

Chewie considers that for a moment, then rumbles something else and drops his great head right into Finn’s lap. Finn makes a noise that Poe considerately decides _not_ to call a squeak, and tentatively runs his free hand over the dragon’s muzzle. “Um. Hi, Chewie. I...guess this means we’re friends?”

“We’ll be here,” Poe says wryly to Rey. “I don’t think Finn’s going anywhere in a hurry.”

“Good,” Rey says, and goes trotting off. Poe folds to the floor beside Finn and reaches out to run wondering fingers over the dragon’s cheek scales.

“A dragon,” he says quietly. “By Aslan, we might actually win this war.”


	5. Chapter 5

Waiting in the dimness for Rey to return is not actually as boring as it might be, mostly because Chewie is apparently very fond of having the soft scales under his jaw and around his ears stroked, and the novelty of petting a _dragon_ isn’t going to wear off anytime soon.

Also because once Rey has gone trotting off up the stairs, Beebee following her curiously, Finn says, quietly, “So once we get Rey and Chewie out of here, what do we do next?”

“Well,” Poe says thoughtfully, “how about you tell _me_ what you think the best use of our available resources is. You’ve got a gift for tactics, and you know the Telmarines’ weaknesses.”

Finn hums, stroking Chewie’s gleaming muzzle. “Well,” he says at last, “I said the Telmarines have three great fears. You Narnians are one - you’re the embodiments of the untamed forest, the wildness that Telmarines hate and fear.”

Poe nods. “Makes sense,” he agrees.

“Chewie here is another,” Finn continues, running a gentle finger down the line of darker scales above one of Chewie’s eyes. “The dragon, the fire out of the darkness, the unknowable and unconquerable danger.”

“Quite,” Poe says, as Chewie rumbles happily at the compliment.

“So if we really want to _break_ the Telmarines - their spirit, their will to fight - we should try to have all three of their great fears arrayed against them. Is there anyone on the - the Lone Islands, I think you called them - who would be willing to come to Narnia’s aid?”

Poe ponders that. “There ought to be,” he says. “Narnia has long had alliances with the merfolk, if nothing else, and the people of the Lone Islands are Narnian, or were, when the Pevensies yet ruled. But how are we to get word to them? The Telmarines have cut our forces off from the sea, and even Beebee can’t fly that far without a break.”

Finn chuckles. “Chewie,” he says. “He can carry messages - or even messengers, since I think he’s large enough for someone to ride. If he’s willing.”

Chewie’s rumble certainly _sounds_ amiable.

“Thanks,” Finn says politely. “So. If we could coordinate a three-pronged attack where the Telmarines are strongest - where General Hux leads them - the Narnians from the forest, and our allies from the sea, and Chewie from the sky - I don’t say it would be easy, but I think it would _work_.”

“Then I suspect that’s what we’ll do,” Poe says, nodding. “Merfolk, hm? They can come up the rivers, I would think, especially if the river gods help out...for that matter, small boats with archers, maybe...hm.” He trails off, deep in thought, and Finn chuckles softly, almost wonderingly.

“It really is amazing,” he says quietly. “Everything they _ever_ told us was a lie. And here I am, sitting next to a faun, with a dragon’s head in my lap, making battle plans that involve merfolk, and - this is _marvelous_. It’s amazing. The world is so much - so much _better_ than they ever let us know.” He smiles at Poe, so bright and beautiful it’s almost blinding, and Poe has a moment of sheer stunned idiocy, because he leans forward across Chewie’s gleaming head and kisses that beautiful smile.

He gets his wits back after a too-brief moment and reels back - would scramble away, but Finn’s hand is still tight on his, Finn’s eyes wide as Finn stares at him. Poe blushes, ears burning, hoping desperately the dimness of the cave will conceal the flush. “Sorry,” he says weakly. “That was...rude of me, I do apologize. I won’t do it again.”

Finn blinks at him, and even in the dim light Poe can see the bafflement on his face. And then, slowly, Finn raises his free hand from Chewie’s scales and touches his own lips, almost wonderingly.

“Do - do Telmarines not kiss?” Poe asks, shaking slightly with the need to hold still, to neither flee nor kiss Finn again.

“Not - not two men,” Finn says slowly. “If the officers catch soldiers kissing or - or touching, the soldiers are flogged and demoted. So mostly no one does.” He starts to smile, just a little, a tiny quirk at the corners of his lips that might just be a trick of the light. “That’s something else Narnians do differently, then?”

“Yes,” Poe says hoarsely, watching that tiny smile hopefully. “For Narnians, it doesn’t really matter who you - who you kiss, so long as both of you want it. Which is why I apologize. I shouldn’t have kissed you without permission.”

“Oh,” Finn says, and apparently considers that, free hand going back to stroking Chewie’s scales. Poe tries to take some comfort in the fact that Finn is _still_ holding his hand. Maybe he hasn’t _utterly_ messed this up, this friendship blossoming between them. After far too long, Finn says, slowly, “And if I _did_ give you permission?”

“Uh,” Poe says, blinking. That was _not_ the response he was expecting. “I - um - I would probably kiss you again? If you wanted? Or not, if you didn’t want, of course, I don’t -”

He’s cut off by Finn tugging him forward, gently, until their faces are so close together that they’re breathing the same air. “Poe,” Finn says, very quietly, into the dim silence between them, “kiss me again. Please.”

“Alright,” Poe breathes, and does. Finn’s lips are soft and warm beneath his, and the tiny sound Finn makes when Poe dares to lick, just a little, at the seam of his lips makes Poe shiver with desire.

The moment is broken when Chewie makes a rumbling noise that sure sounds like amusement, and Poe startles backwards and almost overbalances, only Finn’s hand in his keeping him upright.

Finn smiles at him, so beautiful that if Poe wasn’t already sitting down he’d probably have fallen over, and turns his attention back to the dragon in his lap, and Poe sits there staring dazedly at his - his beloved? Is that a thing that’s happening now? - and wondering when he’ll have the chance to do that again.

*

Poe’s still wondering when Rey comes slipping down the stairs again, some uncounted time later, and beckons them to follow her. Beebee is perched on her shoulder, looking smug. The key she leads them to is enormous, but presumably for a giant it’s merely large enough not to mislay; it takes all three of them, straining mightily, to lift it from its hook, and Poe staggers as they make their slow way down the stairs, tries desperately to keep his hooves from clattering on the stone.

Chewie looks up eagerly when they come panting into his cavern, and holds out his chained leg in clear entreaty. Getting the key _into_ the lock, even with Chewie’s help, isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but once it’s in, the dragon can turn it himself, and there’s an echoing _clang_ as the shackle falls free. Poe backs up, grabbing for Finn’s hand, as the dragon rises to his full height and spreads his great wings, vast and terrible, and wonders if he should be running - if deal or not the dragon is going to decide that marrow bones and petting are insufficient reasons to leave the puny mortals at his feet alone - but then Chewie sighs, and folds his wings, and hunkers down.

“Right then,” Rey says, and hops up onto Chewie’s outstretched leg and from there to the base of his neck, settling between the ridged scales of his spine like she’s meant to be there. “Come on!”

Finn follows her up without hesitation, settling into the dip between Chewie’s spine scales behind hers, and holds out a hand to Poe, who takes a deep breath and hops up, hooves slipping a little the dragon’s scales, to catch Finn’s hand and swing himself into place. Beebee tucks himself between Poe’s chest and Finn’s back, feet latching firmly onto the scales of Chewie’s back. “Alright,” Rey says. “Let’s go!”

Chewie rumbles something _very_ pleased and turns towards the far end of the cavern, where a heavy door bars the way. Poe has a brief moment of worry that the dragon is going to _charge_ the door, with doubtless unpleasant consequences for his riders, but instead Chewie rears back a little, and takes a slow deep breath that makes his sides swell beneath Poe’s legs, and exhales a line of fire that lights the entire room in sudden, juddering lines of brilliance and shadow, and also burns a hole through the enormous wooden door easily large enough for a dragon to slip through.

“...By Aslan,” Poe says faintly.

“I think I may have remembered why Telmarines are scared of dragons,” Finn agrees, sounding a little shaky. Poe reaches forward to take Finn’s hand, and Finn clutches a little too tightly at his fingers.

Chewie rumbles what sure sounds like a laugh and strides forward, and Poe hunkers down a little so as not to brush against the still-smoldering sides of the hole in the door, and holds his breath against the smoke.

The door leads to a long, gently sloping tunnel, and Chewie speeds up as soon as his tail is past the remains of the door, going from a steady walk to a trot to a galloping run that makes Poe clutch at the ridged scale in front of him and pray to Aslan that he won’t fall off. Fauns aren’t _meant_ to ride dragons.

They’re nearly out when there’s a sudden bellow of rage from somewhere above and behind them, and Chewie covers the last few yards in a lunge that ends in a bounding leap, and his wings snap open, and then they are - terrifyingly - in the air. Poe is pretty sure he squeaks. Finn makes a sound of dismay that’s audible even over the rushing air. Rey - Rey _squeals_ with glee, and flings her arms wide, and Finn reaches forward to grab her waist so she won’t fall as the dragon tilts on one wing to swing around back towards the giant’s house, where the giant himself, an enormous figure with a club nearly as big as he is, is standing out front and bellowing incoherently. Poe presumes he’s angry at the loss of his captive dragon.

Chewie is, apparently, disinclined to leave his captor in any shape to follow him. There’s that great heaving breath beneath Poe’s legs again, the scales seeming to strain in their effort to contain the growing fire, and then Chewie exhales, and Poe winces and covers his eyes with one hand, still clinging tightly with the other, because while he’s seen death before - even caused it - it’s one thing to fell an enemy with an arrow or a spear, and quite another to see a giant fall with half his head turned to ash. Ugh.

Not that Poe blames the dragon at all. Any person idiot enough to keep a dragon captive deserves whatever he gets when the dragon finally regains its freedom.

Then Chewie wheels again, turning dizzyingly on one wing, and Poe squints at the stars to see what direction they’re going, and then leans forward to shout over Finn’s shoulder towards Rey, “We’re going northwest! Tell Chewie to turn _south_!”

Rey nods and leans forward to yell towards the dragon’s head, her words lost in the rush of wind, but instead of another swooping turn what they get is a long, low rumble. Rey half-turns to call back, “He says there’s something he needs us to do first!”

Poe considers that, then mentally shrugs. He can’t exactly _force_ the dragon to turn around, after all. Finn apparently comes to the same conclusion, because he says, loud enough for Poe and Rey both to hear, “Alright, I guess we’re doing that!”

Poe hunkers down, taking shameless advantage of Finn’s broad shoulders to escape the wind, curling his body around Beebee’s so the bird doesn’t get blown away, and resigns himself to being on dragonback as long as this mysterious errand requires.

*

They reach their destination as the dawn breaks behind them, and Poe peers down over the dragon’s shoulder as they spiral down and yelps in dismay. “That’s the White Witch’s castle!” he yells. “What in Aslan’s name are we doing _here_?”

“I don’t know!” Rey calls back.

“Isn’t she dead?” Finn asks. Poe bangs his head gently against Finn’s shoulder.

“Yes, but - I’ll explain when we’re on the ground!” he yells, and falls silent as they spiral lower and lower over the ruins of the castle, until finally Chewie touches down gently on the overgrown courtyard, and Poe slides gratefully to the ground and looks around, not sure whether what he’s feeling is curiosity or utter terror. Finn lands neatly on the grassy cobblestones beside him.

“So,” Poe says, “yes, the White Witch is dead.”

“Right,” Finn says, nodding. “She’s the one the Pevensies killed, right? You told me about that.”

“Exactly,” Poe confirms. “But her castle is still not a place any sensible Narnian wants to be. Who knows what sort of traps she might have left behind?”

“Alright,” Finn says, looking around at the grassy courtyard, the gaping holes in the walls where wooden doors have rotted or shattered. “So why are _we_ here?”

Chewie rumbles something, low and almost - sad? Rey comes sliding down the dragon’s shoulder. “He says, his oldest friend is here - that his friend was one of the people turned to stone by the Witch, and Aslan didn’t find him.”

“Um,” Poe says, eyeing the castle in dismay. “Well.”

“Then I guess we need to find him,” Finn says, looking that the castle dubiously. “I think we’re going to need torches.”

“And clubs,” Poe says grimly. “Who knows what’s lairing in there?”

“Right,” Rey says, nodding firmly and taking a tight grip on her quarterstaff. “Torches and clubs, and we’ll find your friend, Chewie.”

Poe nods, and does not say what he is thinking, which is: _even if we do, what then?_ They’re none of them Aslan, to wake the stone by breathing on it.

But that is a bridge to be crossed later, Poe decides. First, they have to find a single statue in the sprawling, cursed ruins of the White Witch’s castle. Preferably without dying, and as quickly as possible. Poe takes a deep breath. “So,” he says, “what sort of creature was your friend?”


	6. Chapter 6

The White Witch’s castle is not a pleasant place to explore. They go methodically, checking through each room carefully, each hall and cupboard, and when they’ve checked each one Poe scratches a mark onto the wall with a sharp bit of stone, an old faun mark that means _barren_ \- used normally to indicate places where it’s not worth planting vegetables - and they move on to the next section. Beebee refuses outright to come in, saying that he’d be very little use in any case, and spends the days collecting fruit and seeds from the hills around the castle to supplement their trail rations.

They find very little within the castle, actually. Someone clearly looted the castle pretty thoroughly - Poe’s betting on the Witch’s defeated armies, as they fled north - and so there isn’t enough food left in the place to have attracted insects, and the cupboards are all empty even of cloth and utensils. It’s utterly silent and still save for their footsteps.

It’s dark and cold in almost all the rooms - the White Witch was apparently not fond of windows - and Poe finds himself twitching whenever they hear, or think they hear, a sound from elsewhere in the great maze of rooms. He’s slightly reassured that Finn and Rey are both _also_ very twitchy, and Rey’s grip on her quarterstaff never eases. At least it’s not just Poe who’s dubious about the wisdom of poking around in the Witch’s castle.

It takes them four days, in the end. They sleep under Chewie’s outstretched wings in the courtyard, all of them uneasy and curled together, taking comfort in each other’s warmth - Poe is endlessly grateful for Finn’s arms tight around him, Rey’s soft snores, the shelter of the dragon’s wing - and wake to gnaw on trail rations and wizened fruit and gather new torches, and go trooping into the castle again, wary and on edge. Chewie’s friend is in the farthest corner of an old storage room, one so out of the way that they nearly walk past the entrance, and Poe stands there for a moment in the flickering torchlight, staring up into the face of an understandably miserable stone Marshwiggle, and wonders how on earth they’re going to get the statue out of the castle.

They manage it, of course, by dint of placing torches all along the path they’ll have to take to get out and then between the three of them managing to lift the statue - thankfully Marshwiggles tend to be very thin, and so though the statue is more than six feet tall it’s not as heavy as might be expected - and then staggering slowly through the halls of the castle, Poe’s hooves clattering on the stone floors, until at last they reach the courtyard and can lay the statue down very gently on the grassy cobblestones. Chewie leans down to look at it and makes a low, miserable sound of distress.

It’s Rey, rubbing the back of her neck and frowning, who says, “Now what? I don’t know how to turn anyone _back_ from stone.”

Poe has been racking his brain on the subject for the last four days, going through every myth and legend and bit of history he can remember, and he takes a deep breath. “I think,” he says, “we need to go to Cair Paravel.”

*

Cair Paravel, Poe learns when Chewie sets down very carefully in the castle’s forecourt, landing on his hind legs and then laying his stone burden very gently down before putting any weight on his forelegs - a maneuver that leaves Poe clinging to Finn, who is clinging to the scale-ridge in front of him, so as not to slide off backwards, with Beebee half-squashed between them and objecting mightily - is in much better repair than the White Witch’s castle. But then, it was inhabited for quite some time after the Pevensies vanished, by courtiers and servants who did not yet believe their monarchs were gone forever.

“So,” Finn says, stretching a little once they’ve all gotten off Chewie’s back and onto safe ground again, “we’re looking for a - a treasure room?”

“There must be one,” Poe agrees, nodding. “And the Pevensies didn’t bring their magical gifts with them when they vanished, so they must still be in Cair Paravel somewhere. If there’s _anything_ in Narnia which might be able to restore a statue to life, it’s Queen Lucy’s cordial.”

“Alright,” Finn says, eyeing the great barred wooden doors. “Cordial. Sure.”

“Ugh, more castles,” Beebee says. “I am going to go find some decent fruit.”

Cair Paravel has not been looted. There is food, in wax-sealed jars or tightly closed chests, the grain and honey and salted meat still edible. There are linens and utensils in the cupboards, the linens moldering gently, the plates and cups of porcelain fit for kings and queens, the utensils finest dwarven silverwork, each one a piece of art. Finn picks one up - a serving spoon with gold inlaid into the handle in twining vine-patterns, little emeralds glinting for the leaves - and turns it over in his hands. “In Telmar,” he says quietly, “ _this_ would be in a treasure room, locked away from prying eyes and thieving hands.”

“The dwarves made the finest things they could imagine for the Kings and Queens,” Poe says sadly. “We all did, we Narnians. The dryads brought them wood uncut and freely given, the Animals served them gladly, the fauns danced for them and carved the wood the dryads brought, and on and on. We had wished for so long to have true kings and queens again, and it was a joy to serve them. Or so I’m told - it was a little before my time. But my father made them a goblet, once, out of wood my mother brought from her tree, and they would not have done that for any kings or queens they did not love.” He shrugs. “It’s always that way, with Aslan’s chosen rulers,” he adds. “I’ve heard that King Frank’s descendants were just as well loved, before the White Witch came.”

Finn nods. Rey picks up a knife and twirls it between her fingers, the silver flashing as it catches the light. “Why hasn’t Aslan showed up again, then?” she asks quietly. “The Telmarines are just as much of a problem as the White Witch, aren’t they?”

Finn nods harder. Poe winces. “It took Him a century to bring us the Pevensies to defeat the White Witch,” he says. “Who knows how long it’ll take Him to bring us someone to lead us against the Telmarines? No, we’re on our own. After all, He’s not a _tame_ lion.”

“Tame lion or not, he should take better care of his people,” Rey says fiercely, and Finn gives her a look full of approval and admiration. Poe blinks, and turns that over in his mind a few times, and the very tentative plan that he’s been puzzling over in spare moments since basically the instant he met Finn gains another strand.

“We’ll do our best until He comes, at any rate,” Poe says, and leads the way deeper into the castle. Here, at least, he is not afraid of being ambushed by hags or werewolves or other dark creatures. Nothing of that sort would dare to lair where the Pevensies once ruled.

Unfortunately, Poe has no idea how to go about hunting for a hidden treasure chamber - and surely it _was_ hidden, probably by dwarves at that - so once he reaches the throne room he has to stop. The thrones are still there, four beautifully carved chairs on a low dais, waiting for their rightful owners to return. The crowns are not. The Pevensies were wearing those when they vanished. Poe’s heard descriptions - how Queen Lucy’s was made in the shape of twining leaves, and Queen Susan’s like a rushing river, and King Edmund’s like leaping flames, and King Peter’s the simplest and yet most beautiful of them all. The most skilful masters among the dwarves made them, and Poe’s heard that the one who made King Peter’s retired the next day, saying she would never make a finer piece and would not dishonor the greatest work of her hands by making a lesser.

“I have,” Poe admits, looking around the enormous chamber, “no idea how to find the treasure room.”

“Hm,” Rey says, and takes a few more steps into the throne room. “Finn? You’ve spent more time around other humans than I have - where would humans hide that sort of thing?”

Finn frowns thoughtfully. “Well,” he says at last, “ _Telmarines_ would hide the entrance to their treasure chamber near the throne room, or possibly near the king’s bedchamber. But I don’t know if Pevensies would think the same way Telmarines do.”

“Near the throne room,” Rey says slowly. “Hm. Good dwarven stonework. Plutt’s house was dwarven, actually, he used to boast about how he’d paid them in sacks of gold and then ate them when they were done.”

“...Charming,” Poe says, suppressing a wave of nausea.

“What he _doesn’t_ know - well, didn’t, given he’s dead,” Rey continues, almost musing, as she begins trailing her fingers along the nearest wall, “is that they expected something like that, and built secret passages into every wall. He never noticed - they were far too small for him. Just right for me, though.” She pauses, traces her fingers around a block at about hip height, shakes her head and keeps walking. “I learned every way a dwarf could hide a doorway by the time I was eight,” she says softly. “He never could find me when he wanted manflesh more than he wanted his trophy alive.”

“Trophy?” Finn asks, frowning.

“He used to claim I was someone important - well, the child of someone important, anyway,” Rey says absently. “That having me was some sort of victory or other over ‘those vicious Pevensie fucks’. Don’t know if he knew they were gone. News doesn’t get up to Ettinsmoor very fast.”

“...It takes a century?” Poe asks incredulously.

“Nobody likes to talk to giants,” Rey points out. “Even other giants.”

“Fair,” Poe admits, shrugging.

“What sort of thing are we looking for, then?” Finn asks. He’s squinting at the nearest wall, tracing the lines of stone and mortar with one finger.

“It’s hard to describe,” Rey says. She’s behind the thrones now, and her voice sounds almost dreamy. “It’s not so much _looking_ for something as _feeling_ when there’s just a little something _off_ about the - ah!”

There’s a click, and a rumble, and Poe and Finn go hurrying around the dais to find Rey grinning beside an open doorway that was not there a moment earlier. A wide, shallow set of steps leads down into a dark corridor.

Poe grabs a candelabrum from a holder nearby - beautiful brasswork, of course - and Finn pulls flint and tinder from his belt to light the candles, and they make their way slowly down into the corridor, Rey leading the way and watching for traps.

The corridor opens out after only a few steps into a wide, low-ceilinged room - dwarf work, they always forget that other people need higher ceilings - and Poe stares around wide-eyed at the glories that surround them. Gold and silver and every kind of jewel gleam from the shelves, and even the chests which hold further riches are carved and inlaid and so beautifully made that they are themselves priceless. But at the end of the room there is a single shelf, plain dark wood without ornament. On it lie a vial that gleams like a star, three-quarters full of some bright liquid, a quiver of arrows, an unstrung bowstave and a coiled bowstring, and a little dagger with a silver hilt; above the shelf hang a sword with edges that look like they could cut the wind, and a shield with a lion’s head emblazoned across it in gold so bright it looks alive. Poe’s breath catches in his throat. Finn makes a soft, astonished noise. Rey steps forward, eyes bright with wonder, hand outstretched.

“We should - we should just take the cordial,” Finn says unsteadily. “Long enough to wake Chewie’s friend. And then bring it back. This - this can’t be for us.”

“No,” Rey says, hand falling to her side again. “No, you’re right. Let’s take the cordial and go.”

Poe steps forward, taking a deep breath, and reaches out for the gleaming vial, and the golden lion on the shield shakes back its mane and roars. Poe startles, flinching backwards and nearly falling, and Finn catches him in shaking arms and backs up hastily. Rey stands her ground, staring up at the lion, which opens emerald eyes and looks at all of them and says, in a voice like distant thunder, “Hail, Daughter of Eve. Hail, Son of Adam. Hail, son of Narnia.”

Rey swallows hard and bows jerkily, knuckles white where she grips her quarterstaff. Finn, shaking like a leaf, gets Poe back on his hooves and salutes, hand to his chest in proper Telmarine style. Poe bows carefully, trying hard not to lose his balance again. It’s one thing to worship Aslan when he’s _elsewhere_ , and somehow quite another thing to confront a god face to face. “Hail, Aslan,” Poe says through a dry throat.

“Son of Narnia,” the Lion rumbles. “Long have you fought in defense of your land. Take up Queen Susan’s bow, and may your arrows ever find their marks.”

Hands shaking, Poe obeys, slinging the quiver over his shoulder in place of his old one - it settles into place as though it was made for him - and tucking the bowstring into the pouch on the quiver’s strap. The bowstave is heavy in his hand as he steps back.

“Daughter of Eve,” the Lion says, and Rey nods shakily. “Daughter too of Frank and Helen’s line. You have a weapon suited to your hand; take up now Queen Lucy’s cordial and her dagger, that your hands may heal as skilfully as they deal death.”

Rey swallows hard and nods again, and picks up the cordial, looping the long chain that holds the vial over her head and tucking the vial under her tunic, then hangs the dagger at her belt. Poe’s mind is whirling. _Daughter too of Frank and Helen’s line_. His plan - his hope - if he can bring this news to the General, if he can tell the Narnian resistance -

“Son of Adam,” the Lion purrs. “You place the safety of others above your own, and love my country with your whole heart, though you come from a far land. Be welcome in Narnia, Son of Adam. Take up King Peter’s sword and shield, and bear them well in Narnia’s defense.”

The lion’s face goes still again, nothing but inlay on a shield, and Finn takes a deep breath and steps forward to lift the sword and shield from the wall. There are scabbards in a chest nearby for the sword, and the shield hooks easily to the shoulder-band of the swordbelt they find. When Finn turns from arming, Poe’s breath catches in his chest.

“You look magnificent,” he says faintly.

“Is my shield likely to keep talking to me?” Finn asks. “Because no offense to your god, but that was _scary as hell_.”

Poe laughs - he can’t help it - and Rey joins in, and Finn holds a straight face for a moment and then dissolves in slightly manic laughter, and then they’re all clinging to each other so they won’t fall over and snorting inelegantly and gasping for breath as they laugh.

“No,” Poe says at last, once they’ve stopped laughing and caught their breaths again. “I don’t think He’ll do that very often.”

“Good,” Finn says, shivering. “Yeek. Right, so, Rey’s got the cordial, shall we go rescue Chewie’s friend? What _is_ a Marshwiggle, anyhow?”

Poe leads the way out, pausing briefly for Rey to seal the treasure room again behind them. “The most pessimistic people you’ll ever meet,” he tells Finn. “They like to predict that the sun won’t rise, and other such cheery prophecies.”

“Do the prophecies ever come true?” Finn asks curiously.

“Well, I heard it was a Marshwiggle who warned that there would be danger coming over the sea,” Poe says, frowning. “But I’ve also heard Marshwiggles proclaim that the stars are all going to fall and the sun will go out and we shall all be eaten by ducks, so...you shoot at enough targets, you’re bound to hit one, right?”

Rey chuckles. “Ducks are surprisingly vicious,” she says, as they step out into the courtyard. “Chewie, we got it!”

Chewie rumbles hopefully, and Rey goes to her knees beside the stone statue of the Marshwiggle. “So,” she says, “how -?”

“A drop in his mouth, perhaps?” Poe suggests. “It’s said it could heal even those on the very edge of death, so hopefully it’ll be able to deal with being turned to stone as well…”

Rey takes a deep breath and draws the vial from beneath her tunic, uncorks it with shaking fingers, and very very carefully tips a single drop into the statue’s half-open mouth. She corks the vial again and leans back on her heels, and they all watch closely, Chewie’s breath gusting hot over them as the dragon peers down.

For a long moment, nothing happens, and Poe clutches at Finn’s fingers in an agony of hope and despair. And then, very slowly, color begins to return to the statue’s stone skin, a greenish tinge at first, which turns to a proper deep green as the stone softens to skin, the change spreading and spreading until the Marshwiggle takes a deep breath, chest heaving, and opens mud-brown eyes, and looks up at them all peering down at him hopefully, and says, “Well, so I’m dead, then.”

Poe bursts into laughter. “No,” he says through his chortles. “Quite alive, I’m afraid.”

The Marshwiggle considers that, then sits up, slowly and rather creakily, and holds out a hand. “I’m Han,” he says when Poe takes it. “And you’re the Witch’s lackeys, then, I suppose, here to kill me properly.”

Poe laughs harder. “And you are a Marshwiggle indeed,” he says, taking no offense. “No. The Witch is dead these hundred years and more, and we’ve only just managed to free you from her spell. I’m Poe, and this is Finn, and that’s Rey.”

“Huh,” Han says, and looks up at Chewie, who drops his enormous bronze head to nuzzle at the Marshwiggle and rumbles something that makes Han’s face go soft with affection. “Missed you too, you lummox,” he murmurs - Poe doesn’t think he was supposed to hear that - and then adds, louder, “So what have I missed? Famine? Plague?”

“War,” Poe says. Han nods like he should have expected that. “Narnia is invaded. Will you join us, and fight?”

“I suppose I’d better,” Han says gloomily. “Doubtless we’ll all be dead within a week, but such is life.” He’s petting the soft scales of Chewie’s muzzle, which rather detracts from the mournful tone.

“You know, I didn’t believe anyone could be that pessimistic,” Finn says, astonished and very amused. “Well, he’ll keep us from getting too over-enthusiastic, I suppose. Should we go and tell the General we’ve found - um - quite a number of surprises?”

Poe grins. “Yes,” he says. “I think that would be a good idea.”

Which is, of course, when Beebee lands on his shoulder, flips his wings closed, and observes, “That’s a new bow.”

Poe sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’ll explain on the way back to camp,” he says. “Or - well - I’ll explain as much as I can, anyhow. I don’t understand it all myself.”


	7. Chapter 7

General Leia looks them all over as Poe leads the motley procession into the encampment. Beebee, the little mischief, flips his wings and goes flying up to perch beside Luke, who blinks enormous golden eyes down at the smaller bird and hoots in what has to be amusement.

“Well,” General Leia says, “when I send you out for surprises, Poe, you do not disappoint. Who are your new companions?”

“This is Rey, who was living as a servant with the giant Unkar Plutt,” Poe says, gesturing to Rey, who gives General Leia a little bow. “She’s apparently a descendant of King Frank and Queen Helen, and I’ll explain how I know that in a bit.”

General Leia’s eyes go very wide. “Be welcome among us, Rey,” she says. “Alright. Go on.”

“This is - well, we call him Chewie, he was being held captive by the giant,” Poe says, and Chewie leans his great head forward over Poe’s shoulder and huffs gently. General Leia bows a little, because being respectful to dragons is always a good life choice. “And this is his good friend Han, who was a stone statue in the White Witch’s castle -” Poe breaks off as the Marshwiggle steps out from behind the dragon’s bulk and General Leia’s jaw drops in blank astonishment.

“By Aslan,” she breathes. “You were _dead_!”

“I’m not sure I’m not,” Han says, looking just as surprised as the General, and steps forward slowly until he’s standing in front of her, looking down at her in amazement and growing delight. “Figured you’d have been cut down by now,” he murmurs, one hand lifting to brush a tendril of hair from the General’s cheek, and she grins, sharp and fierce.

“I’m not that easy to kill, frog-herder,” she says, tone oddly gentle, and Poe realizes suddenly that this is - this _must_ be - the beloved that the General lost in the _first_ war, the one against the White Witch, nearly two hundred years ago.

“Meteor,” Han says quietly. “Any time now. Get us both. It’s not _natural_ for a Marshwiggle to be this happy, Leia Oakborn. Something terrible is going to happen any second now.”

“ _That’s_ why he looks so familiar!” Finn says, eyes wide. Everyone turns to stare at him. Finn swallows hard. “Ah. Sorry. I’ve been - I’ve been wondering since Han got un-stoned why he looked so familiar, and I’ve just realized I’ve seen a Marshwiggle before.”

“There weren’t any Marshwiggles here during your earlier stay,” the General observes, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Finn says, and swallows again. “Um. So this takes a little explanation. You all know the leader of the Telmarines is General Hux, right?”

“Right,” Poe agrees, nodding.

“Well, he’s been promoted _really_ fast. He was barely a lieutenant when we - when the Telmarines landed, fifteen years ago,” Finn says. “And rumor has it that the reason he’s rising through the ranks so quickly is because he has an advisor who - who knows how Narnians think, and where their hideouts are, and how to fight them most effectively.” Poe glances at the General, who has gone an unhealthy shade of grey. “A couple years ago, I was on guard duty,” Finn continues, “and General Hux and his advisor came by. Normally the advisor wears a hooded cloak - covers him head to toe - but. Well. He didn’t realize I was there, and he took his hood off.”

“He was a Marshwiggle?” Han asks sickly.

“Yes, sir,” Finn says miserably. “Now that I’ve seen you, well - he couldn’t be anything _else_.”

“Aslan’s _mane_ ,” Poe breathes. “A Narnian working with the Telmarines.” He can’t think of any news _less_ pleasant to hear, except maybe the imminent approach of the Telmarine army.

“Do you know this...advisor’s name?” the General asks. She sounds ill.

“Everyone calls him Lord Kylo,” Finn says. “That’s as much as I know, I’m afraid.”

General Leia nods firmly, and glances up at the birds in her tree’s branches. “Beebee, Luke, put the word out among our scouts, please,” she says. “I want to know everything we can discover about this ‘Lord Kylo.’”

“Yes, ma’am,” Beebee chirps, and flips his wings, shooting off towards a cluster of other Talking Birds.

“Now,” the General continues, “I would like to know where you got that sword and shield, Finn.”

“That’s the bit I said I’d explain further,” Poe says hastily. “So. Um. Rey found us the entrance to the treasure chamber in Cair Paravel…” He describes their encounter with Aslan as clearly as he can, emphasizing the fact that the Lion named Rey a descendant of King Frank and Queen Helen, and ordered Finn to take up King Peter’s sword and duty to defend Narnia.

When he’s done, General Leia gives him a _long_ look. “Swear to me that this is so,” she says at last.

“On the Lion’s Mane I swear it,” Poe says firmly.

Finn unbuckles the swordbelt and lays sword and shield at the General’s feet. “If you do not think me worthy to bear these, ma’am, I will not,” he says. “I was born and raised to be your enemy, and I have done little enough to prove otherwise.”

Poe bites his lip to keep from protesting. General Leia looks Finn up and down, slowly, and then looks down at the sword and shield, the lion’s face shining brightly in a shaft of sunlight. “Take up your sword and shield, defender of Narnia,” she says at last. “It is not blood and bone which makes a Narnian, but love; and you who know so little of us still dare to risk your life for love of Narnian freedom.”

Finn salutes and goes to one knee to take up the sword again, and as he reaches for the shield the Lion’s face moves. Finn flinches back; the General’s jaw drops. “Wisest of daughters,” the Lion says - Poe sees, out of the corner of his eyes, Narnians going to their knees in a wave as they realize what is happening - “always you see clearly. Be bold.”

The shield becomes merely metal again, and Finn says plaintively, “Can we - hang that up somewhere so I don’t have to carry it? I don’t mean any offense to your god, but I really don’t want a talking shield.”

“I really can’t blame you,” General Leia says, blinking down at the shield in astonishment. “We’ll find a good place for it, and one of the dwarves can make you a nice _plain_ shield for everyday.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Finn says, standing at last and belting on the sword. He looks - well, he looks _princely_ , Poe thinks. He and Rey together are an odd pair, her with her quarterstaff in hand and the vial glinting about her neck like a star, Finn with the sword at his side, but somehow they match, somehow they look _right_ together. They look brave and noble and _royal_ , a Son of Adam and a Daughter of Eve perfectly suited to the Narnian thrones.

And then Finn turns his head and smiles at Poe, sweet and adoring, and reaches out to take Poe’s hand, and Poe leans against Finn’s warm shoulder - just a little - and thinks that he is quite possibly the luckiest faun in the world.


	8. Chapter 8

“It is quite a ridiculous plan,” the General says, “or at least so I would have called it even three days ago; but I must admit the sudden appearance of a dragon does tend to make things which previously seemed impossible _much_ more probable. So. I do not know much of the Lone Isles, save that their lords for many years were of the Calrissian family; if the Telmarines have not overtaken the Isles, those lords may yet rule. They were considered both wise and loyal under the Pevensies. And as you have demonstrated quite a remarkable ability to make very powerful friends, Poe, I have no qualms about sending you to speak in my place.”

Poe can feel himself blushing. Finn squeezes his hand comfortingly.

“We will do our utmost, ma’am,” Poe says, and General Leia claps him on the shoulder and gives Finn and Rey approving nods. Then Rey leads the way over to Chewie and goes leaping up the dragon’s outstretched leg to the saddle the dwarves have contrived - much more comfortable than perching on bare scales and clinging to each other. Finn and Poe follow her, and Beebee lands neatly on the little cup-shaped holder made just for him. Chewie cranes his head around to check that they’re all settled, nuzzles Han one more time - Poe can’t help grinning as the Marshwiggle grumbles under his breath - and takes off.

Flight is actually a lot of fun when Poe isn’t constantly worrying that he’s going to plummet to a horrible death. The air is very clear and rather cold, and Poe huddles closer to Finn’s broad back and watches the clouds scud by, peering down occasionally to see Narnia spooling along far beneath them. It only takes a few hours to cover all the ground it took him and Finn _days_ to traverse on foot - though granted they were both wounded at the time - and Poe watches in fascination as General Hux’s castle falls away behind them, and the wild woodlands of free Narnia are replaced by squares of cultivated fields. _That_ makes Poe shiver harder than the cold wind does. Narnia should not look like that. Narnia is not a _tame_ land, to be hedged in and organized and _tidy_. Narnia is as wild as the Lion, as beautiful and terrible and glorious as its god.

Thankfully, the Telmarines haven’t managed to gain _that_ much of a foothold, and it’s only maybe half an hour at most before Chewie soars out over the open ocean, the water turning from a lovely clear green to a deep and gorgeous sapphire blue as it grows deeper. Poe knows from his parents’ stories that the route between Narnia and the Lone Isles _used_ to be a fairly busy one, with ships going back and forth nearly every day, but there’s no sign of any sails anywhere on the sea. With a little luck, the Telmarine fear of the ocean will mean they aren’t looking for an attack from that direction - assuming Poe can talk whoever’s currently running the Lone Isles into joining the war.

The General trusts him. He’ll manage somehow.

*

The Lone Isles are specks of emerald in the ocean, almost glowing in the golden light of the sunset. Poe’s breath catches at the beauty of the sight, and then Chewie is spiralling down. Rey whoops and flings out her arms; Beebee squawks indignantly as the rushing wind dishevels his feathers. Poe peers down again and muffles a squeak at the sight of the ground coming closer _very fast_. Finn reaches back to clutch at Poe’s leg as Chewie spreads his enormous wings very wide and backwings heavily, and then there’s a _thump_ that shakes Poe’s bones.

They’re in a wide square, facing towards what Poe would guess is the local seat of government, an enormous building made of blocks of white limestone larger than Poe. There are quite a few people gathered on the steps, Talking Beasts and fauns and humans all intermingled; the front row are armed, of course, bows taut, but thankfully no one is shooting yet. Poe slides down Chewie’s shoulder ungracefully, stiff after long hours in the air, and hobbles forward to bow politely towards the human man at the top of the steps wearing a very regal looking cape.

“My lord!” Poe calls as Finn and Rey come sliding down Chewie’s shoulder behind him, and Beebee huddles down and starts preening his windblown feathers. “My name is Poe; my companions are Finn and Rey and Beebee, and the dragon is Chewie. We come in peace!”

“Do you now,” the caped man says mildly, and comes down the steps, patting one of his archers on the shoulder as he passes. “Stand down; I do not think these visitors mean us harm.” He eyes them all curiously. “Though _most_ visitors to our shores come by ship.”

“Alas, the ports of Narnia are closed to us,” Poe says. “And it is on that matter that we come to beg your aid.”

“I do not think this is a conversation for the middle of the public square; and you look weary indeed, and somewhat windblown,” the caped man says. “Come, enter and be made welcome. My name is Lando Calrissian, and I am lord now of the Lone Isles; so long as you remain here, you are under my protection and guests of my house.”

“Our thanks, my lord Calrissian,” Poe says gratefully, and they follow him into the enormous building, all of them grimacing as stiff legs remember how to walk. Poe does not think fauns are meant to spend so long a-dragonback.

Lord Calrissian provides them with a suite of rooms in which to freshen up and then welcomes them to a very well-laid table. Poe has to admit the Resistance doesn’t eat as well as they might - the fauns don’t exactly have space to grow any vegetables, after all, and while they can of course live off the land quite well, the area around the General’s tree is beginning to get a little picked over. And it’s been a _while_ since he had good bread. Or butter. Or _tea_.

Rey seems utterly baffled by the array of good things before them, and Finn watches Lord Calrissian carefully out of the corner of one eye to make sure he’s using the correct fork - Poe supposes Telmarine soldiers don’t have much opportunity for formal dinners - but they all make a very good meal indeed, even Beebee, who takes great glee in the bowl of seeds and fruit laid for him, and, as Poe can see out the window, Chewie, who has been given an entire sheep.

When the meal is over, Lord Calrissian leans back and looks them over curiously. “So,” he says. “Tell me what brings a faun of Narnia, a son of Adam, a daughter of Eve, a Talking Bird, and a _dragon_ to my shores.”

Poe glances at Finn and Rey, who both give him looks suggesting he is _definitely_ doing the talking. “My lord,” he says carefully, “may I ask what you know of the Telmarines?”

“They came through about fifteen years ago,” Lord Calrissian says. “Seven enormous ships, but they couldn’t sail them very well. Tried to conquer one of the outlying isles and our navy ran them off quite handily - sank one of the ships, though I think most of the passengers made it to the other ships, so I don’t think we actually slew that many. They headed on towards Narnia, and about a year later the ships from Narnia ceased to come. We sent scouts, but they could not tell us much save that the port had burned.”

Poe sighs. “They have been making rather more headway against Narnia than they did against the Isles, my lord,” he says sadly. “They fear the forests as bitterly as they do the sea, but they can _burn_ the forests. They slay the Talking Beasts - aye, and eat them, too - and drive all the peoples of Narnia ahead of them with fire and the sword. We have not _lost_ , yet - indeed, we think we may yet have a way to defeat them utterly - but we are driven back each day.”

Lord Calrissian looks grim. “That is ill news,” he says. “Though I had guessed some grave misfortune had befallen Narnia, as the ships ceased to arrive. Yet we of the Lone Isles are few enough, and the Telmarines are far from shore, I should not doubt; what aid would you have of me?”

Poe tries not to sigh with relief. “Our General - Leia Oakborn - she knows that the Lone Isles used to have frequent contact with the people of the sea. It was her hope that you might be able to treat with them for us, to ask if they would join us. It is the General’s belief, based on our knowledge of the Telmarine superstitions, that if we can mount an attack from the sea, the forest, and the air at the same time, we may be able to break their lines and cause them to surrender.”

“And what will you do with them then?” Lord Calrissian asks shrewdly. “For the Narnians I know would not slay them all out of hand.”

Poe grimaces. “I...do not know,” he admits at last. “If they were willing to live in peace among us, to learn to respect the wild lands of Narnia, to trade with our people instead of making war against us, I think we would be willing to allow them to settle, or at least to go peacefully through our lands to Archenland or Calormen.” He shrugs. “The soldiers of Telmar, _them_ we hate, for they take our horns as trophies and slay us without mercy, but the women and children, those who have never done us harm...I do not think the General would allow even the most vengeful of our people to do them injury. We are not the sort of mindless animals they think us to be.”

“No, indeed,” Lord Calrissian says thoughtfully. “You know I cannot give you an answer at once; this must be discussed with my council, and with the leaders of the sea people. But you are all my welcome guests until some decision may be reached.” He considers them for a minute, and then adds, “But of your courtesy, Poe of Narnia, tell me who your quiet companions _are_ , for I did not know that Narnia had any sons of Adam or daughters of Eve left within its borders, save only the invaders.”

Finn winces. “I was born and raised to be a soldier of Telmar,” he says bluntly, as Poe tries to find words to soften the truth. “When I saw the truth of what my people were doing, I could not bear to remain among them, and Poe granted me sanctuary among the Narnian resistance.”

“He neglects to mention that he saved my life,” Poe says.

“Ah,” says Lord Calrissian. “And you, daughter of Eve?”

“I was raised by giants,” Rey says. “The Lion told us that I am the daughter of Frank and Helen’s line.”

Lord Calrissian blinks at her for a while. “The _Lion_ has spoken?”

“Twice,” Poe says. “From a shield inlaid with His image. It was...startling.”

“I should think so,” Lord Calrissian says, looking rather shaken. “What did He say?”

Poe takes a deep breath. The Lion’s words are inlaid on his mind by some combination of awe and terror. “The first time, my lord, he said, ‘Hail, Daughter of Eve. Hail, Son of Adam. Hail, son of Narnia.’ And then, ‘Son of Narnia, long have you fought in defense of your land. Take up Queen Susan’s bow, and may your arrows ever find their marks. Daughter of Eve, daughter too of Frank and Helen’s line. You have a weapon suited to your hand; take up now Queen Lucy’s cordial and her dagger, that your hands may heal as skilfully as they deal death. Son of Adam, you place the safety of others above your own, and love my country with your whole heart, though you come from a far land. Be welcome in Narnia, Son of Adam. Take up King Peter’s sword and shield, and bear them well in Narnia’s defense.’”

Lord Calrissian makes a soft, strangled noise. “And the _second_ time?”

“He spoke to General Leia, saying, ‘Wisest of daughters, always you see clearly. Be bold.’”

“Ah,” Lord Calrissian says. “...And then she sent you here?”

“Yes, my lord,” Poe says.

“Ah,” Lord Calrissian says again. “Well. That _does_ change matters a little. I will...discuss this with my council and the sea people, and with a little good fortune I will have an answer for you tomorrow.” He rises, and pauses for a moment, looking at them solemnly. “I will do my utmost to give you aid,” he says quietly. “I remember our duty to Narnia, and to the Lion.”

Then he is gone, and a cheerful young part-human servant comes in to lead them back to their suite.


	9. Chapter 9

Poe isn’t used to sleeping in a bed anymore. He has quite a nice one in his cave, soft and warm and covered in thick blankets, but he hasn’t been back to his cave in years. He’s grown accustomed to piles of leaves or too-thin bedrolls or simple packed soil.

He’s grown accustomed to having Finn beside him, too. Finn puts out heat like a small furnace, and his presence is endlessly comforting. The bed Poe has been given is remarkably comfortable, soft and clean and not even a little bit full of ticks, but his back is cold even with a pillow pulled up tight behind him.

He’s trying to figure out whether it would be ridiculous to get up and run laps around the main square until he’s too tired to stay awake when there’s a light tap on the door to his bedroom. Finn slips in when Poe calls a soft welcome, looking sheepish.

“I can’t sleep,” Finn admits. “I - um - could I share your bed? I’ve - I’ve gotten used to sleeping next to you.”

Poe swallows an undignified sound of joy. “I can’t sleep either,” he replies. “I’ve gotten used to you being next to me.”

Finn chuckles softly and slips beneath the sheets when Poe lifts them invitingly. He’s only wearing loose sleep pants, and his chest is very warm when Poe snuggles back against it.

“You always smell good,” Finn murmurs, nuzzling against the back of Poe’s neck. “Sort of spicy and warm.”

Poe can feel himself blushing, and is grateful for the darkness concealing his red cheeks. “You’re very warm,” he replies quietly. “It’s nice.”

“Oh,” Finn says, sounding delighted. “Um. So. We’ve been...really busy, I know, but...can I kiss you again?”

“Aslan’s _mane_ , yes,” Poe says, and squirms around to cup his hand around the back of Finn’s neck and sigh into a sweet, gentle press of lips. “I didn’t know if you’d changed your mind -”

“Never,” Finn says firmly, and kisses Poe again. He’s getting better at it very quickly. Poe stifles a quiet moan and feels himself melting into the comfortable bed and the wonderful warmth of Finn’s arms. It’s slow and quiet and soothing, nothing like the wild nights Poe had as a younger faun, and Poe suspects he could happily spend the rest of his life right here, doing nothing but kissing Finn long and sweet and easy.

They fall asleep curled together, breath mingling between them.

*

There is breakfast waiting for them in the morning - Rey is making soft rapturous noises over the orange juice, which is apparently freshly squeezed, and Beebee has his entire head in a papaya - and then they head out into the main square to make sure Chewie is doing well. There are close to a dozen small children clustered around the dragon, patting his scales and marveling at his enormous wings, and Chewie is carefully holding very still so as not to injure any of them. A very small girl who looks like she might have merfolk blood is sitting on the dragon’s nose and giggling.

Poe blinks at the scene. Finn, beside him, shakes his head.

“Telmarine children would be screaming in terror,” he says quietly. “And Narnian children treat him like a sort of marvelous surprise. It is...a little sad, really, how many things we are taught to fear.”

“It is,” Poe agrees.

“Did you mean it?” Finn asks. “When you said Telmarine women and children would be - would be made welcome?”

“I did,” Poe says firmly. “There will be _some_ unhappiness, I know, on both sides, but Narnians do not kill children. So long as they agree to live in peace and abide by Narnian laws, they will be allowed to stay.”

“Ah,” Finn says, and glances over at Rey, who is demonstrating where Chewie likes to be scratched to the fascinated children. “And Rey will become queen?”

“Rey will, if she survives the war,” Poe agrees. “The Lion gave her Queen Lucy’s cordial and dagger; I can think of no clearer sign.” He takes a deep breath. “And the Lion gave _you_ King Peter’s sword, and made you welcome in Narnia. If you live through this, there is every likelihood that you will be king beside Rey.”

Finn’s eyes go wide. “I’m a _Telmarine_ ,” he hisses.

“You were,” Poe agrees. “Now you’re a Narnian. King Frank and Queen Helen were not born in Narnia. Nor were the Pevensies. Yet they were all wise rulers, devoted to Narnia with their whole hearts. You will be too.”

“Oh,” Finn says softly. “I…” He glances down at the sword hanging at his hip. “I don’t think I’m worthy of that, Poe.”

“I do,” Poe says, smiling up into Finn’s worried face, and Finn takes a deep breath.

“Then I will be,” he says solemnly. “For Narnia. And for you.”

Poe’s breath catches, and he reaches up to pull Finn down into a half-desperate kiss.

*

Lord Calrissian finds them out in the courtyard a few hours later. Rey and a team of small children are scrubbing Chewie down with long-handled brushes, which the dragon apparently enjoys a lot, while Poe and Finn sit in the shade with their hands clasped and call “helpful” instructions to the children. Poe has had a bucket of soapy water dumped on him by an exasperated child once already, but it’s warm enough that he’s not unduly bothered by this, and the very small merfolk-blooded girl is cheerfully making soap sculptures in his hair while Finn laughs at both of them, so really it’s a pretty nice morning.

Lord Calrissian clearly has a little trouble suppressing his laughter, but he manages to keep a straight face as he says, “The council and the merfolk have agreed to aid our cousins in Narnia against the Telmarine invaders. At your convenience, then, they would like to meet with you on matters of strategy.”

“Let me just...ah...become slightly more presentable,” Poe says, and Finn reaches up to gently lift the small child from Poe’s shoulders and send her scampering back towards Chewie. Lord Calrissian bows elegantly.

“We will await you in the Blue Room,” he says.

The Blue Room, when Poe has rinsed the soap off and found a rather nice tunic in the closet of the room he’s been given, turns out to be down at water level, built out over the ocean with half the floor open so that the merfolk can sit on the blocks of limestone beneath the surface and speak with the council in comfort.

Finn and Poe and Rey all bow to the assembled council and the merfolk, and take the seats set aside for them.

“We understand that you wish to coordinate a three-pronged attack,” one of the merfolk says - she has coral braided into her hair and a wicked-looking trident in her hand, and scars all down her face, and is frankly rather intimidating. “Us from the sea, your folk from the land, and your dragon from the air.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Poe says respectfully. “But I do not know what your capabilities might be, nor how best to coordinate our efforts. What would you advise?”

The merfolk warleader - she can be nothing else - smiles, leaning on the edge of the floor and tapping her trident against the stone thoughtfully. “Well,” she says slowly, “I think I might have a few ideas.”

*

Poe isn’t entirely sure he likes sailing. It makes _sense_ for them to sail most of the way back to Narnia with the fleet of the Lone Isles and the merfolk keeping pace alongside them, so that when they fly in to tell General Leia what the plan is, the fleet and the merfolk will already be nearly in place and coordination will be easier; and it makes sense to keep from flying over Narnia too often, so as to stay well out of sight of the Telmarines; but sailing is so _slow_.

Also the deck moves unsettlingly under his hooves, and the ocean is very big and very salty and not even a _little_ like the forests which are Poe’s natural home.

Rey _adores_ sailing. She goes darting up into the rigging at every opportunity, dangling from the ratlines and perching in the crow’s nest and pestering the sailors with questions if they happen to hold still for even half a minute. She’ll listen with complete attention to the stories of epic storms and mysterious sea creatures, and glories in the snap of wind in the sails.

Finn is...dubious. The Telmarines are, of course, taught to fear the ocean and everything about it, but Finn is making a determined effort to cast aside all the lessons he learned in the Telmarine ranks, so he pays close attention to the sailors as they explain what all the various ropes do, and visibly forces himself to spend time every day at the rail, watching the water foam by far beneath his feet and the merfolk sport around the ship’s bow.

Beebee likes sailing well enough, or rather, likes sitting on the very tip of the bowsprit with his wings half-spread and feeling like he’s soaring over the ocean. He gets rather salt-crusted, though, and Poe ends up spending quite a while every night wiping the salt from his friend’s feathers.

Chewie is _deeply_ dubious about sailing, if only because the ship is only _barely_ large enough for a dragon, and he has to stay curled up on the afterdeck so to not unbalance the whole ship. The other alternative would be for him to just keep circling the ship, and after the first day of that he apparently decided that sleeping on the afterdeck is the lesser of two evils. Once a day they reef all the sails and put out oars to balance the ship so he can take off and go looking for food - apparently there are some _very_ big fish around here, and the merfolk are happy to drive them up to the surface for Chewie to catch - and come back again, landing with a _thump_ that shakes the whole ship.

He usually brings a fish back for everyone else to share, which Poe quite appreciates. Seafood is rather a luxury for a forest-dwelling Narnian, and it’s become even rarer with the Telmarines holding the shoreline.

But still, it’s a sort of torment, watching the ocean foam by and knowing that every day is a day Poe’s comrades in the Resistance are fighting - maybe _dying_ \- and he’s not there beside them. He knows this is the best use of his talents, knows that if this _works_ it’ll be far more valuable than one more faun with a bow, but it’s still hard not to feel guilty for not being there.


	10. Chapter 10

At last - at _last_ \- Lord Calrissian makes a final mark on the chart spread out before them and nods. “We’re within half a day’s sail to the shore,” he announces. “Go and tell your General we’re on our way. We’ll plan to strike as dusk falls, unless we hear otherwise.”

“We’ll be ready,” Poe says firmly, and leads the way to where Chewie is waiting impatiently on the afterdeck. The dragon is eager to be on his way, and Poe takes his place on the saddle as quickly as possible, tucking Beebee carefully into the little bird-holder and leaning forward to hold onto Finn as Chewie takes off.

They go high, _very_ high, until the air is actually a little thin, so that no Telmarines who happen to be looking upwards will see a dragon go by, and then after a span which feels somehow both far too short and endlessly long Chewie banks, turning elegantly on one wingtip, and dives for the ground. Poe squeaks in terror. Finn’s hands clamp down on Poe’s arms where they’re wrapped around his waist hard enough to leave bruises. Rey shouts something triumphant and gleeful.

As they shoot through the cloud layer, Poe peers down over Finn’s shoulder, and his breath catches in his throat. He can see the clearing around the General’s tree - the enormous oak far taller than anything else around it - and, more to the point, he can see _fire_. The forest is blazing, and through the blackened areas where the fire has already passed he can see movement - shining metal and moving blots that must be Telmarine soldiers.

“How did they _find_ us?” he yelps.

“I don’t know,” Finn yells back. “Beebee! Beebee, go back to the ships! Tell them the attack needs to start _now_!”

“I go!” Beebee shrills, and Poe leans back just far enough for the little bird to launch himself from the saddle, heading back the way they came at the best speed he can manage, straight as an arrow towards the Lone Isles forces.

“Chewie!” Finn calls, and the dragon rumbles an acknowledgement. “Put us down in the clearing, and then get off the ground! Stay out of arrow range! Try not to burn down the forest!”

Chewie’s rumble is distinctly amused this time, and then he is backwinging heavily and Poe clutches harder at Finn and there’s a _thump_ that shakes his bones and they’re on the ground. Poe scrambles down off Chewie’s back, Finn and Rey behind him, and the dragon launches himself again, the wind almost knocking Poe over.

The General is waiting for them, looking tense and drawn and older than Poe’s ever seen her before, with Han beside her looking grim even for a Marshwiggle. “Poe,” she says hoarsely. “What news do you bring me?”

“The Lone Isles fleet and the merfolk are only a few hours offshore, and will attack at dusk if not before,” Poe says quickly. “Beebee’s gone to summon them faster, but even if he doesn’t get there in time, we only need to hold out until dusk.” There’s a great echoing roar from above them, and Poe manages a grin. “And we’ve got a dragon on our side now.”

“Good,” the General says, nodding. “Very good.”

“How did they _find_ us?” Poe asks, unlimbering Queen Susan’s bow and stringing it as he speaks.

“The traitor,” Han says softly, voice full of pain. “He led them straight to us.”

“How did _he_ know?” Finn asks, frowning. “I didn’t think every Narnian in the country knew where the General’s oak was.”

“He knew because he grew up here,” the General says, sounding almost _broken_. “He knew because before he was Lord Kylo of the Telmarines, he was my son Ben.”

“Ah,” says Poe, because there’s not much else he _can_ say. “I’m...I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“It is no fault of yours,” General Leia says steadily. “Son of Adam. Daughter of Eve. Son of Narnia. Go and win me this war.”

Rey draws herself to her full height and nods, gripping her quarterstaff firmly. Poe salutes, raising Queen Susan’s bow. Finn reaches up to take the shield where it hangs upon a branch and slides his arm through the straps, then draws King Peter’s sword.

“For Narnia,” Finn says, voice stronger and deeper than Poe has ever heard it before.

“For Narnia,” Rey echoes him, sounding older and wiser and steadier than she ever has.

“For Narnia,” Poe says, knowing he does not sound like a warrior out of legend. “For Narnia, and the Lion.”

And they turn and fling themselves into the fray.

*

There are _so many Telmarines_. General Hux must have called together every division of Telmarine soldiers in Narnia for this assault. Which is good news, Poe supposes, if the Narnian side _wins_ , because then they won’t be mopping up little packets of Telmarine holdouts for months, but bad news just _now_ , when the Narnians are badly outnumbered and even having a dragon on their side doesn’t seem to be helping much.

Poe finds a hillock, left bare by the raging fires, and puts Queen Susan’s bow to work. It is the sweetest bow he has ever used, and every arrow he shoots flies straight to his mark. He aims only for officers, wishing that General Hux would come into range, but even with picking his targets carefully, he’s beginning to run out of arrows. There are just so _many_ Telmarines, and they keep _coming_.

Down below him, on the ravaged forest floor, Finn and Rey are fighting back-to-back, Finn’s sword and Rey’s quarterstaff flashing in deadly unison. The Narnian army was giving back, retreating one slow step after another, when Poe and Finn and Rey arrived; now Finn and Rey have pushed the battle lines forward again, the Narnians thronging behind them and chanting the Lion’s name, given new energy by the Son of Adam and Daughter of Eve who have come to lead them.

But there are still too many Telmarines, and the afternoon is waning on towards evening, and Poe is beginning to worry - is the river too narrow to allow the ships to traverse it? Have the merfolk been stopped at the shore? - when suddenly there’s a bright flash of orange in the corner of his eye and Beebee lands heavily on his shoulder. Poe lowers Queen Susan’s bow for a second - shooting with a Talking Bird on his shoulder doesn’t work, he knows from experience.

“What news, little buddy?” he asks. Beebee trills.

“They’re on their way!” he says gleefully. “They’ll be here within a turn of the glass!”

Less than half an hour - Poe heaves a sigh of relief. “Well done, my friend!” he says. “Go and tell the General!”

Beebee launches himself off of Poe’s shoulder, and Poe goes back to shooting with a lighter heart. Soon, soon, soon -

Beebee returns, screeching at the top of his little lungs. “They’re attacking the _tree_!” he shrills, and Poe whirls to see that yes, a small group of Telmarines has clearly snuck past the battle lines and is surrounding the General’s tree. The General and Han and the wounded who had retreated into her clearing are doing their best, but - well - they’re _wounded_. It’s not going well.

The clearing is well out of Poe’s normal range, but Queen Susan’s bow is far better than any he has used before. He’ll never get back to the clearing in time to help, but -

Poe presses a kiss to the wood of the bow. “If ever you have served Narnia, do so now,” he murmurs. “Let my arrows fly to their marks, o Lion; let my aim not fail me.” The bow is warm in his hands, and Poe takes a deep breath and sets an arrow to the string, aiming for the leader of the Telmarines in the clearing, the one urging the ones with axes forward towards the General’s tree. Windage, height - the calculations are nearly second nature by now. Poe takes a long, slow breath and lets fly.

Behind him, he hears a shout, hundreds of voices giving tongue: “For Narnia! Narnia and the Lone Isles!” And then the hungry hunting screams of the merfolk as they rise out of the water, and the reinforcements are here, the Telmarines are pinned between the Narnians and the fleet, there is a chance that they will actually _win_ this -

And Poe’s arrow strikes true. The Telmarine leader stumbles forward, goes to one knee - falls.

And his hood falls back to reveal the face of a Marshwiggle, not a son of Adam.

The General cries out, loud and shrill enough to be heard even over the chaos of the battle, and there is a pause, as everyone turns to see what could have caused such a sound. And in that pause, Poe turns away from what he has wrought to see Finn step forward, the shield blazing bright in the light of the setting sun, and strike down General Hux with a single ruthless blow.

And Chewie lands beside him, wings spread, roaring at the top of his lungs; and Rey leaps, a great beautiful arc that leaves her standing on the dragon’s shoulder with her staff upraised. “Surrender!” she cries in a great voice that echoes across the battlefield. “Surrender, Telmarines, or die!”


	11. Chapter 11

Poe stays up on his hill in the aftermath, watching for any signs of treachery as Finn moves among the surrendered Telmarines, ordering them to put down their weapons and shuck their armor and move nearer the river so the merfolk can guard them; as Rey walks down the long lines of Narnian wounded, giving each one a single drop from the vial of cordial about her neck; as the General and her beloved bend over the body that was once their son, weeping in each other’s arms. Poe’s not entirely sure how he’s going to face the General again. He shot the man who was leading the Telmarines who were trying to kill her - arguably he saved her tree and thus her life - but to discover that that man was her _son_?

Poe doesn’t _regret_ shooting him, but he’s not glad of the grief he has given the General, either.

Beebee joins Poe after a little while, hunkering down on his shoulder and preening Poe’s hair gently. A few minutes after that, _Chewie_ arrives, curling his enormous length around the hillock and laying his head in Poe’s lap. Poe laughs to himself and puts Queen Susan’s bow aside in favor of giving the dragon ear scritches. Chewie has certainly _earned_ them.

Finn finishes speaking with the Telmarines and makes his way up the hillock, skirting Chewie’s tail carefully, to sit beside Poe and clean his sword. A few minutes later, Rey joins them, sinking down to lean back against Chewie’s side with a long sigh of relief. The vial of cordial about her neck still looks as full as it was this morning, but Poe can see the effects it has had: the lines of wounded are replaced by a small horde of joyful Narnians, thronging about the General’s tree and rejoicing.

“Now what?” Rey asks quietly. “Now that we’ve won?”

“Good question,” Poe says, looking out over the seated Telmarines, the joyful Narnians, the fire-scarred forest. He takes a deep breath. “I think what we do next, Daughter of Eve and of Frank and Helen’s line, Son of Adam and Defender of Narnia - I think we crown our newest king and queen.”

*

Poe isn’t _entirely_ sure how he ended up being the person _coordinating_ the coronation of the new king and queen of Narnia, but the General is grieving and no one really wants a Marshwiggle organizing a party and Poe knows pretty much _everyone_ by now, anyway, and so he finds himself asking Snap to make new crowns and Jess to figure out catering and Nien to talk to the centaurs about auspicious dates and after a few days he realizes he’s basically running the entire show. Finn is busy with the surrendered Telmarines, talking to each of them to discover which ones are willing to live in a Narnia ruled by and for _Narnians_ , and Rey is busy with the Narnian army, taking notes on all the matters which have been set aside after the Pevensies vanished and now need the attention of the queen-to-be, so Poe barely sees them for more than a few minutes each day, though Finn still shares his bedroll, and is very conscientious about kissing Poe goodnight. It’s oddly sweet, actually - Finn will break off whatever he’s doing at the moment to come over and give Poe a long and lingering kiss, and then return to his duties, only coming to snuggle up behind Poe after everything is squared away for the night.

However Poe ended up in charge of this mess, he isn’t actually _bad_ at it, and it’s only two weeks after what has been dubbed the Battle of the Clearing that he finds himself standing in the newly-cleaned great hall of Cair Paravel, with an _enormous_ crowd of Narnians and Telmarines and Lone Islanders at his back (and what certainly seems like all the merfolk in the sea peering in through the seaward windows) as Finn and Rey take their places before the thrones, with the great shield hanging on the wall behind them so that the golden Lion’s face seems to be watching the ceremony too.

There’s been a great deal of debate over who should crown the new king and queen. Poe himself was suggested, since he _found_ them, but he shot that idea down as quickly as he could. He’s no avatar of Aslan, to crown the rulers of Narnia. The General was suggested, but in her grief she cannot leave her clearing; _Chewie_ was suggested, to general delight; even Lord Calrissian, though he refused almost as soon as the words were spoken. But at last everyone agreed that since there was no one in Narnia who had a true right to crown the new rulers, they should crown each _other_ , in the sight of Aslan and their people, in the clear light of a new day.

Finn turns to Rey and lifts the delicate silver crown in his hands. “Rey, daughter of Eve, last heir of Frank and Helen’s line,” he says solemnly, voice rolling out over the crowds. “Do you swear to serve and defend Narnia and her people, to be true and honorable and just, and to give your life to the land?”

“I do so swear,” Rey replies solemnly, and Finn lowers the crown very carefully into place on her head and goes to one knee before her. She has a golden crown in her own hands, and raises it high. “Finn, son of Adam, of the blood of Telmar, do you swear to serve and defend Narnia and her people, to be true and honorable and just, and to give your life to the land?”

“I do so swear,” Finn says, and Rey places the crown on his head, and he stands, and they turn to face their people.

Poe doesn’t think he _leads_ the cheer which follows, but he’s certainly one of the loudest voices participating in it. It goes on for a long, long time, all the joy of the Narnian people and all the astonished relief of the Telmarines and all the glee of the triumphant Lone Islanders joining together in a shout which seems to shake the very stones of Cair Paravel. Outside, Chewie roars, the echoes reverberating along the sea-cliffs.

And on the shield, the Lion wakes, and His roar drowns out all other sounds, triumph and joy intermingled. Poe finds himself on his knees, staring up at the shield, and all around him the Narnians and Telmarines are on their knees too, shocked and awed and more than a little terrified.

Rey and Finn turn to look up at the shield, the only people still on their feet in the whole vast hall.

“Hail, King Finn the Compassionate,” the Lion says solemnly. “Hail, Queen Rey the Bold. Rule wisely and well.”

“We will,” they say in perfect unison, and the Lion’s face turns again to metal as the echoes of His roar die away.

And then, of course, there is a feast.

*

Poe is rather drunk, he must admit, but that’s a natural consequence of _Bacchus_ showing up to provide the wine for the coronation feast - something Poe was _not_ expecting - and in any case everyone else is rather drunk too, including Chewie, which is something of a sight to see. And Beebee, who has passed out on a windowsill next to a very tipsy Luke. The old Owl glares at Poe when Poe laughs at him, but it’s not a very good glare.

Poe is sitting on a wall outside Cair Paravel, looking out over the ocean and marveling at the way the world has changed in so little time. It’s quieter out here, but still loud enough for the revelry inside the hall to cover the sound of approaching footsteps, so that the first notice Poe has that Finn has joined him is warm arms wrapping around his waist.

“Found you,” Finn murmurs in his ear.

“Wasn’t hiding,” Poe says, leaning back against Finn comfortably. “Your Majesty.”

“Not to you,” Finn says quietly. “Never that to you.”

“Finn,” Poe agrees, and Finn makes a soft, happy sound in his ear. “My king. My Finn.”

“Your Finn,” Finn agrees. “My Poe. My...consort?”

Poe slews around to stare up into Finn’s face, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” he asks carefully, astonishment doing quite a good job of sobering him up despite the very rich wine.

“I’ve talked it over with Rey, a bit,” Finn says solemnly. “We’ll have to have children, both of us, so we don’t leave the kingdom in the lurch again like the Pevensies did - might even end up having children with each _other_ , depending on how things go - but if you can bear to stay with me knowing that, well, I - I love you, and I want you at my side forever.”

Poe blinks, letting that concept turn over in his mind a few times. Fauns aren’t normally much for ‘forever,’ but Poe’s father and mother were utterly devoted to each other, and Poe doesn’t think that’s a _bad_ family tradition to perpetuate. The idea of Finn siring children on some daughter of Eve is a _little_ uncomfortable, but the idea of _children_ , Finn’s children, adorable little moppets with Finn’s dark eyes and bright smile, is worth quite a lot of discomfort, and in any case Finn is right: a king’s first duty is to cement the line of succession. Poe probably _should_ say no, so that Finn can marry some daughter of Eve for the sake of alliance or children, but -

But this is everything Poe has wanted since very nearly the moment he first laid eyes on Finn, this is love and joy and hope shining in Finn’s eyes, this is Finn’s arms warm around him as Finn waits so patiently for his answer, and so the only answer Poe can give is, “Yes.”

Finn kisses him, there on the balcony outside Cair Paravel, and the sound of the surf and the cheers of the crowd mingle to make a glorious cacophony that seems, to Poe’s ears at least, to hold an echo of the Lion’s rumbling purr.

**Author's Note:**

> This will update weekdays until finished.
> 
> I am imaginarygolux on tumblr - drop on by!


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